


Party Favors

by unrestedjade



Category: Undertale
Genre: Other, content warnings and relevant info at the start of each chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:48:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 79,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrestedjade/pseuds/unrestedjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to put fills from the post-FINAGLC request party and assorted drabbles and one-shots. Expect AUs, fluff, angst, various pairings, genfic, a flagrant lack of editing, and ridiculous notions. [All warnings/advisories posted in the pre-chapter notes, please make use of them.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get Well Soon (FINAGLC short)

**Author's Note:**

> By anonymous request, a brief slice of the time Papyrus spent comatose at the end of FINAGLC. (The innkeeper's youngest really likes glitter.)
> 
> Warnings: None.

Mr. Papyrus seemed to like the color red, so Usa used all her red glitter on the get-well-soon card. She was especially proud of the way it resembled his red scarf– it really brought the portrait together. Macaroni shells were a difficult medium, but Mr. Papyrus already kind of looked like he was made of noodles, anyway, so it was a good likeness.

 

She signed her name, turning the card sideways to fit in all the letters. Mama had said writing big would make it easier for Mr. Papyrus to read. That was just as well, because she wasn’t very good at small writing yet.

 

A tall fish woman answered the door when she and Mama got to Mr. Papyrus’ and Mr. Sans’ house. She was loud, but nice. She sat with Usa at the table while Mama and a plump lizard woman talked in the kitchen. They were being quiet, which meant grown-up talk.

 

The house smelled like Auntie’s cinnamon bunnies, and the fish lady brought her one with a glass of milk when she mentioned it. Usa let the fish lady look at the card she’d made while she nibbled the ears off the bun. The fish lady said it was a really cool card. She even said the glitter was the best part.

 

Maybe fish lady needed a card, too. She had blue glitter, and sequins, even!

 

Mr. Papyrus and Mr. Sans were having a nap on the couch, so Usa was quiet while she had her snack. Fish lady said that she probably wouldn’t wake up either of them. Mr. Sans had been staying up too long looking after Mr. Papyrus and was very tired. And Mr. Papyrus had been sleeping for a couple days.

 

“Because he fell down?” Usa said, finishing her milk.

 

Fish lady said yes.

 

“My Gramma fell down last year. She turned to dust because that’s what happens when you fall down,” Usa explained. “But not every time, Mama says.”

 

Fish lady said that was right. She looked sad.

 

She definitely needed a card of her own. Usa would start on it as soon as she got home.

 

With the cinnamon bunny eaten and the milk gone, Usa slid down off her chair. “Can I put my card on top of the TV set?” Mr. Papyrus would be sure to see it there. There were lots of flowers and things in the house already, but there wasn’t anything sitting on the TV.

 

The top of the TV was a little too high to reach by herself, so Usa let fish lady arrange the card while she went to the couch.

 

Mr. Papyrus was a quiet sleeper. He didn’t snore, or anything! Usa didn’t know anyone who didn’t snore when they were sleeping.

 

She liked Mr. Papyrus. He was good at making snow bunnies and forts and snowballs, and even if you hit him in the face with a snowball he didn’t get annoyed. He was cool.

 

He had a lot of scrapes on him. She smooched a really painful-looking scrape on his cheek to make it hurt less, and patted his head with her paw.

 

He didn’t wake up. Fish lady was right, he was sleeping really hard.

 

Mr. Sans snored a little bit. He must have been really tired, because he was asleep even though he was just sitting on the floor and leaning on the couch instead of laying down like you were supposed to.

 

Usa liked Mr. Sans, too. He was funny, and he did all the voices when it was his turn to read at the library, and he even added jokes to the books to make them better even though the librarian said it “wasn’t appropriate for the age level.” Usa didn’t know what that meant, except maybe Mr. Sans thought she and her classmates were big kids, which was true and also cool of him to notice.

 

Mr. Sans looked worried even asleep. He wasn’t smiling, and it made his face look wrong. Maybe he was having a bad dream. If Usa’s brothers and sisters got sick and hurt this bad, Usa would have bad dreams until they got better. Usa gave him a smooch on top of the head so he’d have a better dream. 

 

He’d need a card of his own, too.

 

Mama was done talking to the lizard woman, and came over to the couch.

 

“He’s still sleeping,” Usa said helpfully.

 

Mama nodded, and squeezed her shoulder. She reached out and brushed her paw over Mr. Papyrus’ brow, which probably helped because Mama’s paws were soft and cool and nice, especially when you didn’t feel good.

 

Mama leaned down and whispered something to Mr. Papyrus, and Usa realized she’d forgotten to encourage him. That was very important when someone was sick! She leaned down, too, trying to think of something really good to say.

 

“Um…” she said, stage-whispering at the spot she thought he ear would be. “You’re doing a good job! Don’t forget to read my card when you wake up, or Mr. Sans can read it to you, maybe. Okay, bye!”  

 

Usa smiled up at Mama. That was pretty good for something she made up just now. Mama gave her a hug, and they said goodbye to the ladies and went back home.

 

Usa was excited to make more cards. She’d have everyone in that house feeling better really soon.


	2. A bad egg meets a good noodle (knock-off Reborntale AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For fantasysaga, angel!Papyrus has a run-in with some demons, with special guest star demon!Sans. Not genuine Reborntale because I'm not familiar with it, so I just made some shit up instead. :V Chapter title courtesy of [humming-fly's cute sketch](http://unrestedjade.tumblr.com/post/146091208765/just-wanted-you-to-know-i-absolutely-loved-that).
> 
> Warnings: broken bones, light philosophical musing

The park was buzzing with activity on this sunny Sunday afternoon. Families picnicked on the grass, children flew kites and played games of tag and catch. No mortal eyes saw the angel, or the pack of lesser demons harassing him.

 

A being of pristine light, all white bone and shining wings and white raiment broken only by the red of the sash at his waist, the angel managed to look ridiculous and pathetic as he scolded the dark shapes cavorting around him.

 

Sprawled out on a park bench some distance away, Sans watched the poor sap. It was hard to tell which choir this angel belonged to, but it was pretty obvious he’d bitten off way more than he could chew. In a large enough group, lesser demons went from being an annoyance to a danger real quick.

 

It didn’t help that the angel was trying to talk them down instead of fighting back.

 

Good luck with that, buddy.

 

One of the demons darted in to pluck a few feathers from the angel’s wing, holding them aloft in triumphant claws and high-fiving its companions while the angel squawked protest.

 

A hint of panic edged the angel’s scolding now as the rest of the pack eyed him speculatively. Feathers fluffed out in a silly attempt to make himself look bigger, more imposing. A warning flare of holy light backed them up for a moment, but their hesitation faded soon enough and they were back to circling.

 

“Don’t let them get too brave, bro,” Sans muttered to himself, “or they’re gonna be picking their teeth with your bones in about ten minutes.”

 

If it would even take that long. Once the little ankle-biters started egging each other on things tended to get nasty.

 

One and then another of the demons took their turns running in to snatch at wings and clothing, taking their own trophies. The angel pivoted at the center of the shrinking circle, trying and failing to keep them all in view, keep them at bay. An incautious demon was buffeted by a wing, sent tumbling over the grass like a rag doll. Its fellows dodged the body nimbly and closed ranks again, edging closer.

 

Sans frowned. “At least try to smite them, buddy,” he grumbled, tail lashing back and forth. He’d seen more than a few angels (and higher demons) torn apart this way, whether out of arrogance or carelessness, but this particular shit-show was bothering him for some reason. What was this guy doing? There was no reasoning with the Nephilim; they had no better nature to appeal to, and no sense of restraint. They didn’t understand mercy. They’d keep going until they got bored, and the angel would be long dead by then.

 

It was down to fight or flight, and the angel chose flight. It was the wrong choice.

 

A handful of demons caught hold of the angel’s left wing on the very first down-stroke. Wrenched off balance, the angel tumbled hard to the ground. The demons leapt on him, crowing and laughing. Sans could hear the snap of the captured wing breaking a split second ahead of the angel’s pained cry.

 

Sans was up and skimming over the grass, halfway across the field before his conscious mind caught up to his actions. Why was he getting involved? This wasn’t his problem. One less dumbass angel in the world, what did he care?

 

Maybe it was the unfairness of it, or how senseless it was. Whatever the reason, something about that voice raised in pain had him instantly _very_ pissed off.

 

The angel thrashed on the ground, trying vainly to throw off his attackers. His good wing flipped one of the demons into the air. Unthinkingly, Sans reached out with his own power and caught it. Its angry screeching cut off abruptly when he slammed it against the ground with a wet _crunch._

 

The pack noticed him then, twenty pairs of glowing eyes swiveling to stare at him. The angel stared at him, too, frozen in place and trying to mask his obvious fear. If it were physically possible for the angel to go any paler than he already was, Sans was sure he would have.

 

“Hey,” Sans said, mild despite the crushed demon at his feet. “Some of us are trying to nap. Go cause a ruckus somewhere else.” He left his wings outstretched, for what it was worth. Lesser demons were of an intelligence level that equated big with scary. The tactic hadn’t worked too well for the angel, but Sans had plenty of bite to back up his bark.

 

“You’ll not chase us from our sport,” piped the bravest or stupidest of the lesser demons. “And you won’t take credit for our rightful kill, Slothful One.”

 

“If you know who I am,” Sans said, lifting the unlucky speaker into the air with a thought, “then you know I’m gonna do exactly that, and there’s jack shit you can do about it. Now, I’m tired and cranky, so I strongly suggest you all scram.”

 

With that, he tossed the formerly-brave demon over his shoulder. He didn’t turn to watch it land, but heard the sharp thud of its impact.

 

None of the rest of the little mongrels stepped up to take their mouthy companion’s place. Snarling but keeping their distance, the pack released the angel and slunk away. Sans glared after them, ready to lay the smackdown if any of them had a sudden attack of the stupids and decided to have a go at him. None of them did. Like most things that were alive, they preferred to stay that way as long as possible.

 

Lesser demons couldn’t be reasoned with, but they could be scared shitless.

 

The angel had managed to push himself up onto his knees by the time the last of the pack disappeared from view. He scrambled back when Sans’ gaze fell on him.

 

“You’d best stay away, mister,” the angel said, failing to intimidate even the slightest bit. “I’ll have you know that I’m a highly-trained seraph, and-”

 

The broken wing twisted as it dragged along the ground, and whatever else the angel had been about to say trailed off into a sickly whine.

 

“Relax, bro. I come in peace,” Sans said, crouching down out of reach of the angel’s wings. He didn’t really want to get knocked silly if the angel started flailing around again. “You okay?”

 

The question was more formality than anything. After getting curb-stomped by a pack of lesser demons, the angel was far from okay. At least the broken wing seemed to be the worst of the injuries.

 

Well, aside from the angel’s pride, anyway.

 

“I had the situation well in hand,” the angel huffed. With an obvious effort, he stood up, swaying unsteadily.

 

Sighing, Sans caught the angel with a thought as he stumbled and fell. “Yeah, I can totally tell,” he said, easing the angel back onto the grass. “Were you going to spring into action before or after they yanked your head off and started playing soccer with it?”

 

As the blue glow of Sans’ power faded from him, the angel crossed his arms and pulled his good wing in close, sulking. “I’ll admit,” he said, “it could have gone _better,_ I suppose. But I’m sure some of them were really considering the ramifications of their actions!”

 

The angel jumped when Sans barked laughter. “Ha! Yeah, buddy. Sure.” He studied the angel closely. “Seraph, huh?” Yeah, right. And Sans was a Duke of Hell. He and Mammon played golf every Tuesday and he had Leviathan on speed-dial…

 

The angel fidgeted, straightening his torn clothes. “Er…” He looked away from Sans to focus on a Very Important Tuft Of Grass instead. “Not precisely at this moment, perhaps. But very soon!” he added hastily.

 

“So, you’re a liar, then.” A lying angel– now that was funny. Sans would have been very surprised if this angel actually were in the choir of Seraphim. Not enough eternal flames of righteousness going on, for one thing, and he was four wings short of a full set.

 

Also, he was a goof.

 

“I am not a liar!” The angel’s feathers ruffled in outrage at the accusation. A few shook loose to drift onto the grass. There were plenty littering the ground already thanks to his little demon buddies. One settled on the curve of one of Sans’ horns. “It was just a statement of fact that isn’t _technically_ true quite yet. Not a lie.”

 

Sans whistled low. “Now that’s some spin doctoring worthy of Heaven.” He shook his head to dislodge the feather. Angel cooties were a real concern. Couldn’t be too careful.

 

The angel combed his fingers through the feathers of his good wing, pouting. “Undyne’s sure to recognize my hard work any day now, and then it will be true,” he said, the ‘so there!’ hovering unspoken in the air. “I just have to do a bit more, that’s all.”

 

“Yeah,” Sans said, an unaccustomed flicker of sympathy rising at those last words. “It’s always just a little bit more, isn’t it?”

 

The angel didn’t reply, and it occurred to Sans that he might be in shock, not just sulking. He could see a splinter of bone peeking out from amongst the feathers on the broken wing, and unlike the rest of the angel’s body the wing bones weren’t supposed to show.

 

“Hey, we should do something about that, yeah?” Sans nodded toward the damaged wing. “I’m pretty sure it’s not meant to bend that way.”

 

Sans leaned forward, sweeping his wings and tail back for balance. The angel flinched away from his claws, hissing as the movement jostled his wing again.

 

“Easy, bro, lemme look at it.” Reaching out again, slower, Sans twitched a few contour feathers aside to get a better look at the wound. Holy magic oozed out around the snapped bone. It was a bad break. The angel wasn’t getting anywhere by air anytime soon.

 

Shivering and trying to hide it, the angel crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “Not your bro,” he grumbled.

 

Sans shrugged. “Just a figure of speech, bro.” He stood, scanning the ground for a sturdy stick to use as a splint. “I mean, unless we’ve got some kinda ‘separated at birth’ situation on our hands,” he said, spotting a likely branch nearby and picking it up. “Stranger things have happened.”

 

The angel scoffed. “I highly doubt I’m related to a demon, of all things.”

 

Sans shot the angel a look while he snapped leaves and stray twigs from the stick. “Uppity talk for a guy who was getting his angelic ass served to him by a bunch of jumped-up imps until I stepped in. You don’t gotta thank me, or anything. It’s fine.”

 

“I didn’t need help,” the angel insisted, against all evidence. “Still,” he said, hunching his shoulders, “I suppose I ought to thank you, anyway.”

 

Sans wasn’t sure the admission counted as being thanked, but that was apparently all he was getting. Oh, well. It wasn’t like he expected a medal.

 

“What’s an angel from the lower choirs doing picking fights on the mortal plane, if you don’t mind my asking?” Sans settled back down in the grass, using his claws to strip the bark from the stick. “You strike me as more of the ‘singing hosannas _ad nauseum_ ’ type to me, no offense.”

 

“I wasn’t looking for trouble,” the angel said, drawing his knees up to his chest. “I was intending on finding a few mortals to inspire to virtuous deeds. I do quite a lot of that.”

 

“Sounds like a blast.”

 

The angel didn’t catch the sarcasm. “I’m very inspirational, you know.” For bragging, the angel sounded almost glum about it. Even his halo dimmed. “You should see the comfort and aid I can render unto mankind all by myself, with no help and no recognition,” he said, resting his arms across his knees. “Because that’s not what it’s about, you understand. Virtue is its own reward, naturally, and I’m sure Undyne knows that I know that.”

 

Sans looked up from the stick. “I don’t know, bro,” he said, shaking his head while he checked the stick for rough spots. “A discontented, ambitious, lying angel. Today just gets stranger and stranger.”

 

The angel straightened up from his slouch instantly. “I am nothing of the sort! I am _very happy_ , thank you very much,” he snapped. “And stop calling me 'bro.’ I don’t like it. My name is Papyrus.”

 

Sans blinked. “What, like the old-timey paper?”

 

Papyrus rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ve _never_ heard that before. Bravo.”

 

“Hey, I’m not trying to ruffle your feathers!” Sans held up a hand in a placating gesture. “It’s just an unusual name, that’s all. I’m Sans, by the way.”

 

“French?” Papyrus said, incredulous. “Very classy.”

 

Sans grinned, sticking his metaphorical nose in the air. “Well, one does try.”

 

That actually got a chuckle. Much better.

 

“Okay,” Sans said, satisfied that the stick was clean and smooth enough to use. He pointed at the spar of bone jutting from the angel’s wing. “I’d heal this if I could, but, y'know.” He shrugged. “That’s not really my bag. The best I can do is patch it up so you can walk without dragging it, at least.”

 

Papyrus’ gaze moved from the stick to his broken wing nervously. “I understand,” he said, fingertips digging into the turf.

 

Sans moved to kneel behind the wing where he could see better. “You wanna hand me your sash?” he said, reaching over Papyrus’ shoulder. “I need something to wrap it with.”

 

Nodding, Papyrus untied his sash, wincing as he unwound it. Moving his arms the wrong way meant shifting his wing joints, too. Sans felt sympathy twinges in his own wings. He’d had breaks before, though never this severe. It hurt like a bitch. And Papyrus’ wings were a lot bigger and heavier than his, so it was actually pretty impressive that he wasn’t howling like a banshee right now.

 

Of course, Sans hadn’t set the break yet.

 

“So,” he said, hoping that keeping the angel distracted might help in some small way, “inspiring mortals, huh? That’s rough.”

 

“Oh, not at all!” Papyrus perked up a bit, though he was still shivering. “People generally want to do the right thing. Mostly I just have to give them a gentle nudge in the right direction, that’s all.”

 

Sans smirked. “Weird. That’s usually all I have to do, too.”

 

Papyrus glared over his shoulder. “It’s not the same thing.”

 

“Oh?” Sans took a moment to roll up the sash, to make it easier to keep it tight later. “How do you figure?”

 

“Well, obviously,” Papyrus said, haughtily, “What I do is merely drawing out mortals’ finer feelings. Cutting through the noise, so to speak, and getting them more in tune with their inner selves.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

Papyrus nodded. “Whereas you, on the other hand,” he said, with a tone that suggested he’d be curling his lip if he had lips, “expend your efforts on confounding mortals and trying to trick them into acting against their natural impulses.”

 

“Ha!” Sans couldn’t have held the laugh in if he tried. “Seriously? Are you for real right now?”

 

“Yes, I am! I fail to see what’s so amusing.” Papyrus adjusted his clothing, which was hanging wrong without the sash to cinch it in. “You have an uphill battle, and I for one don’t envy you.”

 

“Oh, don’t cry for me, Argentina,” Sans said. “The hardest part of the job is getting to a mortal in time to get some credit for whatever they were about to do anyway. Most folks are just waiting for permission to do what they really want.” A whisper in a mortal ear here and there kept Sans well ahead of his quota, and all that seemed to do was get them to act earlier than otherwise. They still would have sinned.

 

Papyrus shook his head. “People want to be good, deep down.”

 

Sans chuckled. “How deep down? People want to _seem_ good, sure.” And, oh, the ones who most wanted to look righteous in the eyes of others were often the worst. “They wanna be liked because being liked gives you power, and they wanna brown-nose their way into Heaven. It’s just a means to an end.”

 

“Untrue.” Papyrus turned, wincing, and gave Sans a thoughtful look.

 

There weren’t many beings who could stare down Sans, but something about the angel’s gentle gaze was hard to hold. He found himself studying the broken wing instead, trying to decide how best to go about setting it. He’d just have to hope Papyrus could keep still, or he’d make it worse.

 

“Case in point,” Papyrus said, facing forward again, “demon or not, you witnessed those creatures attacking me and put a stop to it. The fact that I didn’t need you to is beside the point, of course! And now you’re going even further out of your way by tending to my wing.” He held up three fingers in turn. “That’s Justice, Kindness and Charity right there.” He brightened at this (literally– Sans had to squint against the light), as though the idea of inspiring a demon made up for getting his ass kicked.

 

“Nah,” Sans said, gently pressing the broken wing flat on the ground for leverage. Papyrus grunted in pain but cooperated. “I just want something. There’s either a reward for doing a 'good’ thing, or a punishment for not doing it, right? That’s all the reason anyone does anything. It just comes down to carrots and sticks. You should probably look away,” he added, gripping either side of the break in his claws.

 

Without giving Papyrus time to tense up, Sans jerked the two halves of bone back into alignment. Papyrus, to his immense credit, didn’t move enough to undo Sans’ work. He _did_ blaspheme, though. Loudly.

 

“Heh. Never heard an angel say _that._ ” Sans was coming to the realization that he kinda liked this guy.

 

Fists clenched against the ground, Papyrus shot him a glare. “Well, it hurts,” he snapped.

 

“I bet it does,” Sans said, bracing the stick against the wing. “That’ll teach you to steer clear of packs of Nephilim from now on, yeah?”

 

Papyrus didn’t answer, either sulking or trying not to cry. The wing had to be pure agony now.

 

Tying off the end of the sash, Sans began carefully wrapping the makeshift splint. He nudged flight feathers aside as he worked, arranging them so that he could get the sash tight without making a total mess of the plumage. Papyrus twitched and winced all the while, but he didn’t complain.

 

“You don’t have a carrot,” Papyrus said, just as Sans was finishing up with the wrapping.

 

“Hmm?” Sans had let himself trance out a little while he worked, watching the sunlight play across the surface of holy-magic feathers like reflections on a pond. It was surprisingly soothing.

 

Papyrus curved his good wing around to preen it with shaking fingers. “You don’t have a carrot,” he repeated. “For helping me. If anything, you’re risking getting in trouble. But you’re doing it anyway, even though you don’t know me and you have nothing to gain.”

 

Sans shrugged. “Maybe I’m investing in a future payoff, you think of that?” He leaned forward over the splinted wing to make sure Papyrus saw him wink. “Maybe I’m gonna try to recruit you, huh?”

 

“Fat chance,” Papyrus said, affronted.

 

“No, really,” Sans said, smile growing as the angel’s irritation returned. It was so easy to get a rise out of him, he couldn’t resist. That, and something about seeing Papyrus upset or sad didn’t sit right. Mad was preferable. “There’s a lot of room for advancement downstairs for an ambitious type. Horns would definitely suit you.” The tip of his tail twitched in amusement at the thought.

 

Actually, it was hard to picture Papyrus as anything other than exactly what he was now. He wore holy light with an ease that Sans had never had. Some angels could be ensnared, but even knowing him for such a short time Sans was fairly certain that Papyrus wasn’t one of them.

 

Papyrus frowned, his hands pausing over his good wing. “Did someone tell you that?”

 

“Nah,” Sans said, waving him off. “I just sorta _fell_ into the job. Eh?”

 

Papyrus gave him a blank stare.

 

“Nothing? Jeez, you could crack a smile, or something.” Feeling fidgety and awkward all of a sudden, Sans set about preening the splinted wing. “I mean, I was a pretty crappy angel, all things considered. This fits better.”

 

Papyrus didn’t react to having a demon neaten his feathers, just half-hugged his good wing, frowning and fretful. “What made you change?”

 

This was getting a lot more personal than Sans would prefer. Somehow, he found himself answering. “I didn’t change,” he said quietly. “Just stopped being a hypocrite, that’s all.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Just…” Sans combed his claws along a feather that shimmered with orange and gold in the late afternoon sun. “It’s pointless, right? Even if you keep one mortal from committing one really life-ruining sin, there’s ten more that you couldn’t reach. Entropy always wins, so why fight it?”

 

Papyrus sighed. “That’s very grim,” he said. “So, because you can’t save every mortal from everything, you’d rather damn them?”

 

“They damn themselves,” Sans said, tail lashing back and forth peevishly. “All I do is make it a little more efficient.”

 

“By tempting them to-”

 

Sans cut the angel off with a derisive snort. “I don’t have to tempt them. Like I said, all I do is give them permission. You know the one phrase I get the most mileage out of? The magic words?” He leaned forward, mouth split in a joyless grin. “'It can wait one more day.’ That’s it. I can do so much with just that one idea.”

 

Papyrus was silent for a moment, and Sans was surprised to see that the angel was actually considering what he’d said. “No,” Papyrus said at last. “I don’t see it. At best, you’re just forestalling their triumph over you.”

 

“That’s because you’re assuming that they wanna triumph over anything. They don’t.” Sans shook his head. “You can spend all day nagging and prodding them into motion, but all I have to do is tell them 'tomorrow,’ and it sends the whole house of cards down.”

 

“But mortals _want_ to help each other, and they want to be happy, and do good things,” Papyrus said, some of the haughtiness creeping back into his voice. “You can’t keep them from doing what they truly want– you said as much yourself.”

 

The wing was as clean as Sans could make it, but he kept combing his claws along its surface anyway. “Altruism is bullshit,” he said, watching the nearby mortals at play. “It’s just survival instinct modified for social animals. And all any animal wants is to seek pleasure and avoid pain. Hell, they don’t even want to be happy. They’ll stay miserable as long as it’s easier than the alternative. I should know.”

 

The wing shifted out of Sans’ grasp as Papyrus pushed himself to his feet. “Life is hard,” he conceded. “That’s why it’s so important to encourage them, to lend them strength. Sometimes that extra push is all they need to save themselves.” His voice rang with earnest conviction, and Sans wondered how much of what Papyrus was saying was what he believed or simply what he needed to believe. “They’re not just animals– they can do great things if they try.”

 

Sans looked up at the angel, taking in the ripped clothing, the scrapes, the way Papyrus’ broken wing clamped too close and stiff to his back. Pain traced every line of his body, but he looked just as puffed-up and sincere as ever. He’d nearly died in this garbage corner of the mortal plane today, and what for?

 

So he could convince some asshole not to cheat on their partner (for now?) So he could inspire some other loser to put down the bottle (until their will failed again?)

 

So some other dipshit member of the heavenly host might deign to notice him? And what good would that do?

 

It pissed Sans off. He didn’t know why, but it just _did._

 

He stood up, annoyed that he had to look up at Papyrus to talk to him now. “Yeah, sure,” he said, aware that he was stepping over the line from winding Papyrus up to being openly provocative. “That’s why all I ever have to do is agree with them to make them stumble. Yeah,” he said, sneering. “Go on and call in sick to work again. Apologize later. Pay that bill later. Reach out later.”

 

Papyrus stared down at him, saying nothing. Sans studied him, looking hard for that sanctimonious angelic disdain that never failed to infuriate him, but all he found was confusion and dismay. He didn’t actually like seeing that, either, but he was on a roll. He hadn’t had anyone to vent to (or talk to at all, really) in a long time. Apparently some shit had been building up.

 

“So what do they end up doing?” he said, gesturing at the mortals around them. “Nothing. They put off that scary conversation until their spouse hands them the divorce papers. They half-ass at the job they hate until they get a pink slip instead of looking for something else. They avoid their friends until they end up alone because it’s a hassle to have to be there for other people. They go for easy comfort now, no matter how much it fucks them over later.”

 

“Not everyone,” Papyrus said, crossing his arms as though hugging himself.

 

Sans shrugged. “Yeah, only most of them, most of the time. My point is,” he said, “you think they want your strength? You’re just wasting it on them.”

 

He took a step closer, and Papyrus took a step back.”What mortals really want,” he said, grinning, “more than power or wealth or sex or anything is to _give up_. They want to _wallow._ They want a self-care day that turns into a month that turns into a whole year pissed away down the drain. The big, bad world is too much, so I let them off the hook, let them admit defeat one day at a time.” He shook his head. “They’d do it eventually with or without me.”

 

Papyrus looked him over, weighing and measuring. “The way you talk about it,” he said, brow furrowed, “it doesn’t seem like you take much enjoyment from your work.”

 

“I’m good at it, bro,” Sans said. “Enjoyment doesn’t come into it. Don’t act like nagging people into doing shit they don’t really wanna do is _your_ favorite thing in the world.” God, inspiring mortals all damn day? It was exhausting just to think about.

 

“And I’m a freaking artist with Sloth,” he added, rubbing some imaginary dirt from his claws. Everyone talked up Lust and Greed and Wrath, but Sloth? You could do a lot with Sloth. It was downright insidious, a slow-acting poison. “No offense, but if you were half as good at Courage or Humility or whatever the hell you preach, you’d have your promotion by now.”

 

“I’m good at my job,” Papyrus protested, without much force this time.

 

Sans crept forward. “Nah,” he said, pushing too far again, speaking to hurt. “You want to be good at it, because there’s something in it for you. You’re Prideful, and you want praise and admiration and progress toward more than you’ve got.”

 

Papyrus wrung his hands together. “I’m not proud. I’m just…enthusiastic.”

 

“Pride,” Sans insisted, pointing a claw squarely at the angel’s face. “That’s what you’d really be good at. You’re too good for the lower choirs, so you want to move up.” That got a guilty flinch out of Papyrus, and Sans grinned wider. “You’re self-aggrandizing and proud– you want things, and angels aren’t supposed to _want_ things. Not for themselves. Not ever.”

 

When Papyrus failed to come up with a counterargument, Sans went on. He wasn’t enjoying upsetting Papyrus– he’d have liked to give some other, less likeable angel a piece of his mind.

 

But again, he was on a roll.

 

“Maybe you’ll figure out the score someday, accept your true nature, or whatever,” he said mockingly, “but you probably won’t. You’ll convince yourself that you can be happy being ignored and get bitter and burnt out.”

 

And wasn’t that a strangely depressing thought.

 

Papyrus stayed quiet for a moment, stricken. “Is it that much better on your side?” he asked, at last.

 

Sans was all set to really start hitting below the belt, but there was nothing snide about the way Papyrus asked the question. Everything the angel said was totally genuine. It was really throwing Sans off balance. “Touche,” he said, shrugging. “You fucking got me there.”

 

“Do you want to know what I think?”

 

“Lay it on me, bro,” Sans said, relishing the way the angel’s eye socket twitched on hearing the hated epithet yet again.

 

“I think,” Papyrus said, laying a pristine white hand on Sans’ shoulder, “that you’re a good person.”

 

Sans laughed, fangs flashing in what was left of the daylight and the glow of Papyrus’ halo. “Buddy, have you been counting dandelions the whole time I’ve been talking? Did you get any of that?”

 

Angels, man. Now and then Sans thought he’d found a cool one, but they were all alike. So self-righteous they didn’t need to listen to anyone about anything– just repeat the same empty platitudes, pat themselves on the back, and float away.

 

“Clearly the mortals’ plight bothers you, or else you wouldn’t act so disappointed with them,” Papyrus said. “I’ll admit, they can be…vexing.”

 

“We can agree on that, at least,” Sans said, brushing Papyrus’ hand away. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him kindly, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

 

Papyrus withdrew his hand, raising one finger to tap thoughtfully at his teeth. “It’s almost like you’re trying to spare them pain, in a way.” He tipped his head, his halo making their shadows jump in the failing light. “By speeding up the process, I mean. Is that close?”

 

An angel trying to understand a demon’s motivations was a little too much to process, and Sans floundered for a second. After a few false starts, he settled for a dismissive cough.

 

“I think something at some point made you scared of our task, or maybe you’re just very tired,” Papyrus went on, more insightful than some goofball stranger had any right to be, “but you helped me, and you didn’t have to. And you did this for me,” he said, stretching his injured wing as much as he was able, which wasn’t much. “So I don’t think your basic nature has changed. You’re just going through a rough time. It’s okay.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” What did this guy know about him, or anything, for that matter? Sans was still pretty sure he liked Papyrus, but he also kinda wanted to punch him right in his kind, smiling face. It was a complicated emotion to have for someone he’d just met.

 

Papyrus nodded, scattering a few moths that were drawn to his natural glow. “Yes! It’s never too late to do better,” he said, adding significantly to his punchability. He fished through hidden pockets in his clothes and produced a cell phone. “If you ever want to talk again,” he said, holding the phone out to Sans, “it’s the least I can do in return for your kindness. Friends are nice!”

 

Sans looked from the phone to Papyrus’ expectant expression and back.

 

He needed a drink.

 

“You are easily the weirdest angel I’ve ever met,” Sans said, but he took the phone and entered his number into it. The contact list was shorter than he expected. Hmm.

 

Papyrus beamed as he took his phone back and put it away. “I’m the coolest angel you’ll ever meet,” he said.

 

Sans didn’t get this guy at all. He kinda wanted to figure it out, though.

 

He also didn’t want to leave Papyrus to wander around the mortal plane alone with a broken wing. This part of town was lousy with demons, and the angel’s friendly disposition had nearly gotten him killed once today already.

 

“Hey,” Sans said, gesturing for the angel to follow him. “Let’s get you something to take the edge off that wing. There’s a bar near here that’s just the right amount of divey.”

 

Papyrus fell in step beside him, shining brighter than the streetlights. “I guess I could go for a glass of milk, or something.”

 

Sans shook his head. “Oh my god, bro.”


	3. mad science and chill (alphys/sans)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By anonymous request: Salphys.
> 
> Warnings: Alphys being too gay for this earth (yes, even when crushing on a dude).

Alphys was getting used to finding the skeleton monster wandering the labs. Well…not _wandering_ , per se. Sans seemed to know the layout of the place as well as she did. She wondered how many times he’d slipped in, got whatever he needed at the time, and slipped out without her ever knowing he was there. She suspected that happened a lot more often than the times she caught him. It wasn’t unusual to find computer terminals with old, forgotten files left open on the screen, or machinery that had clearly been used. He didn’t try to cover his tracks.

 

He didn’t even have the good grace to look upset or worried when she found him– just glanced briefly up at her when she entered the room and went back to rifling through a filing cabinet that she _knew_ had been locked.

 

“Hey, Al,” he said, as though he had every right to be here.

 

She sighed. She was getting used to his breaking and entering routine, but that didn’t mean she liked it. “Y-you know you can’t be d-down here.”

 

Sans chuckled, gesturing to himself as if to say ‘and yet, I stand before you.’

 

“How d-do you keep g-getting in?”

 

“Ways and means, Al,” Sans said, winking at her over the open drawer. “Ways and means.”

 

Of course he wouldn’t tell her. She doubted she could effectively keep him out even if he did share his secret.

 

Tail held out stiff behind her, Alphys crossed the room. “Those are…those are classified,” she said, putting a hand to the drawer to push it shut.

 

Without looking up from the files, Sans stuck one finger behind the lip of the drawer. She couldn’t shut it without crushing his finger, so of course that meant he could keep snooping.

 

“I just need to double check something.” Sans gave her a wide smile, setting his index finger against his mouth coquettishly. “You know you can’t resist this cute face. Besides, we’re pals, aren’t we? Relax.”

 

Alphys fidgeted, torn. She liked Sans, but she also knew when she was being walked on. “You’re g-going to get me in trouble. Everything in here b-belongs…belongs to the royal f-family.” Just because she was the Royal Scientist didn’t mean she could throw the doors open to anyone and everyone. Especially when she didn’t know what Sans was doing when he helped himself to whatever he wanted.

 

Sans made a small sound of triumph, pulling a file from the drawer. “Here’s the little bastard,” he said, flipping through the documents inside the folder. “It’s fine, Al. I won’t tell if you won’t. Oh!” He reached into the pocket of his ketchup-stained hoodie and pulled out a handful of dog biscuits. “That reminds me– I think most of Endogeny likes these.”

 

As she pocketed the treats Alphys wondered, not for the first time, if Sans was just trying to be nice to his former neighbors or if the little gifts he brought for the amalgamates were a subtle reminder that she had nothing to gain and a lot to lose if she ever tried to report his movements to Undyne or the king.

 

She didn’t like to think that Sans was that way, but he could be surprisingly cold about some things, she’d noticed. The humor and the easy charm just made it harder to see what he was up to.

 

And yes, he was cute, and she hated that it mattered to her.

 

His priorities were his brother and himself, in that order, along with whatever goal he was after. And then after a big, _big_ step down came everyone else. Including his friends, like her. She was lonely, yes, but she was no fool.

 

“What are you d-doing with…with all this?” Alphys had half a hope that someday all the evasive non-answers he gave her would add up to a complete picture.

 

Sans shrugged. “You know, I’m not totally sure myself? Trying to jog my memory, maybe.” He closed the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Taking this,” he said, getting out of the way so Alphys could finally shut the drawer.

 

“N-no way!” Alphys said, epically failing to sound the least bit authoritative. “That’s c-classified, you c-can’t just-”

 

“I’ll bring it back when I’m done, Al. You know I’m good for it,” Sans said, shrugging. “Next time you catch me down here, feel free to lend a hand, huh? Then maybe we can keep everything nice and tidy in here.”

 

All at once he was right in her face, the lights in his eye sockets playing off her glasses. “You know, mad science and chill? Could be fun.” He leaned another half-inch forward, nuzzling the tip of her snout briefly.

 

Alphys froze, burning up from the top of her crest to the tip of her tail. She stammered something nonsensical while the door opened and shut behind her, and she heard Sans’ footsteps retreat down the hall.

 

She rushed to the door and threw it open, but he was already gone. Like always.


	4. We're gonna need a lot more bad anologies (FINAGLC short)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By anonymous request, Sans can't avoid discussing his little party trick forever.
> 
> Warnings: None.

“Oh, bro,” Sans said, waving his half-empty beer dismissively. A few empty bottles stood in a line on the table in front of him. “You really don’t wanna hear about all that. It’s boring– just a bunch of weird math and stuff.”

 

Papyrus would not be dissuaded. Sans had been dodging his questions for days now. Enough was enough. He took a sip from his own bottle, only his second. “You can’t just…just flout the laws of physics and expect me to accept that it’s ‘math and stuff,'” he said, putting extra sharpness into the air quotes.

 

“I’m not 'flouting the laws of physics,'” Sans said, and Papyrus noticed the glint in his eye socket too late to head off the incoming rant on the nature of scientific progress and paradigm shifts. Any prescriptivism at all when it came to things like this tended to set him off.

 

“If it weren’t physically possible, I wouldn’t be able to do it. So the fact that I can just means that the current laws of physics need fixing, that’s all.”

 

He tapped his fingers on the table. It was a lucky thing there were no pencils or anything nearby, or diagrams would have been forthcoming. Papyrus had caught him scribbling directly on the tabletop once when he was in a mood like this. Getting a piece of paper would have taken too long, apparently.

 

“I mean, do you know how long the Ptolemaic model of astronomy hung around, even when it was so obvious that a geocentric universe was fucking batshit even from a mathematical perspective?” Sans’ fingers flexed, itching to draw. “Epicycles, bro,” he said, anguished.

 

Papyrus nodded sympathetically. He had no idea what an epicycle was, or why it was so problematic.

 

“Like…” Now in full Professor Sans mode, Sans tipped some beer onto the table. “People decide on this shit, and then they never wanna let it go, even when something better comes along.” He dragged his index finger through the spill, painting a pattern of overlapping and tangential circles. “Do you wanna work through the rat’s nest of equations for this just to calculate an orbit? Look at this fucking mess!”

 

“I am looking at it,” Papyrus drawled. Bad enough that Sans never used a coaster. Sigh.

 

“I mean, sure it worked well enough for what the old-timers needed, mostly, but it’s _wrong._ But everyone had to be up in Galileo’s grill because god forbid they have to reconsider anything or…or think!”

 

Papyrus nodded, again without any idea what Sans was on about.

 

Sans swiped his palm through the beer painting, redrawing a pattern of concentric circles. He blotted it out again and made the circles into ellipses instead, sighing in exasperation at his mistake. “I don’t know, bro,” he said, frowning. “Can you imagine what we’d have if it weren’t for people’s egos?”

 

“Well, they did come around eventually.” Papyrus assumed so, anyway. “And you’re still dodging the question.”

 

He hoped the beer wouldn’t damage the wood. This table was battered enough as it was.

 

“I’m not, it’s just hard to…” Sans took a pensive swig of beer. “Like… I’m pretty sure I _learned_ some things,” he said, tapping the lip of the beer bottle against his temple, “that I don’t really remember figuring out, so I gotta kind of reverse-engineer how it works, and without the math it’s hard to explain.”

 

Papyrus took a careful sip from his own bottle. “Give it a try.” Sans was never more open than when he’d been drinking. And since he’d started before Papyrus got home, this didn’t _really_ count as enabling… It was just pressing an advantage, that was all. “I’m sure you can get the general idea across.”

 

Sans made a face, as though the effort of translating numbers and variables into mere words was distasteful. He took another drink to fortify himself for the task. “Okay, so,” he said, and immediately had to pause to collect his thoughts.

 

Alcohol made him more open, but not more eloquent.

 

“Let’s say you have a…bed sheet? Actually, no,” Sans said, shaking his head. “It’s more like a patchwork quilt, maybe. Lots and lots of little patches. And we’re on one of the patches, right?”

 

This was going to be rough, Papyrus could already tell. He nodded encouragingly.

  
“And if you want to get onto another patch, you gotta move across all the patches between the one you’re on and the one you’re going to, yeah?” Sans blinked, checking over what he’d said to see if it was utter garble.

 

“I follow you perfectly well, Sans,” Papyrus said. “Have some faith in me.” He was following for now, anyway. He was sure that state of affairs would change soon enough.

 

“Right, right.” Sans said. “So, like, instead of crossing all those patches, you could just fold the quilt so the patches are touching.” He pressed his palms together, and frowned. “Well, I don’t think it’s really like that, but…”

 

Papyrus nodded. As far as Sans’ analogies went, it was unusually coherent. “You’d shorten the distance to nearly nothing.”

 

“Yeah! I mean,” Sans said, brightening. “Basically. It’s a handy way to think about it, anyway. Or,” he went on, brow furrowed, “like unsticking yourself from the patch and then sticking yourself down again in a new spot.”

 

That one was a little weirder. “Wouldn’t that be farther?” Papyrus frowned. “An arc is longer than a straight line.” He wasn’t in the same universe as Sans when it came to physics, but he was good at geometry. Arcs? Definitely longer than an equivalent line. No one ever said 'the shortest distance between two points is an arc.’ Because it wasn’t.

 

Sans shook his head. “No, see, space and time only exist on the quilt. Like, technically you’re not really anywhere while you’re unstuck, but it’s an instantaneous…”  He paused, as though the rest of his thought had escaped. “The quilt thing is starting to make my head hurt,” he said, absently picking at the beer label, “but since all of your atoms have a certain probability of occupying any given space at any given time, there’s a way to sort of game the system and force the…the dice roll you need if you know which…which _strings_ to pull on, and be a hundred percent probable of being in the new place.”

 

Now Papyrus was having trouble. When had dice gotten involved? Were they normal dice, or the fancy ones with lots of sides? Or did that matter?

 

He shook his head. “I think I understood the quilt, but now I’ve lost the _thread_ , Sans.”

 

“I mean, it’s not really atoms, I guess, but the specific resonance of…” Sans trailed off as the part of his brain not preoccupied with translating quantum mechanics into small words caught the pun. His eyes lit up, literally. “Bro. Holy shit.”

 

Papyrus smiled. He could do it too, after all.

 

Sans’ own grin wilted slightly. “Man,” he said, scratching his head, “this is really hard. I think I’m starting to confuse myself.”

 

“It certainly seems like complicated magic,” Papyrus said, nodding agreement.

 

“Here,” Sans said, standing. “I got an idea.”

 

Papyrus knew where this was going, and remembered how well their last drunken magic lesson had gone. He didn’t have time to say anything before Sans grabbed his arm and-

 

Papyrus caught himself, stumbling backward in the snow and throwing his free hand out to keep from falling on his backside. “You could have let me stand up, at least,” he chided, brushing snow off his sleeve.

 

If Sans heard the complaint, he ignored it. “Did you feel the…” He made a vague gesture, trying to grab  a suitable word out of the air. “The seam?”

 

“The what?”

 

Sans hummed to himself. “Alright, this time see if you notice anything,” he said, and the temperature rose as one of the damp caverns of Waterfall replaced their yard. A few nearby echo flowers repeated the _pop_ of displaced air from their arrival.

 

Shaking off the momentary disorientation, Papyrus tried to place what felt different.

 

Oh. He’d appeared ankle-deep in a shallow stream.

 

Sans laughed. “Sorry, bro,” he said, as Papyrus stepped up onto the bank. “Feel it this time?”

 

All Papyrus felt was wet socks. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. “What’s this…seam supposed to be?” He frowned. Maybe letting Sans draw on the table wouldn’t have been so bad. “Are we back to the quilts again?”

 

“Uh…” Sans thought for a moment. “Kinda? All these different cells have seams,” he said, thoroughly losing Papyrus again. “Like a point of least resistance. If you can get hold of one, you can unstick yourself– kinda slip down underneath all…this.” He gestured at the cave walls, the stream, the flowers.

 

Hesitantly, Papyrus shook his head. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted any more demonstrations until they’d both sobered up, but he had to admit he had no idea what Sans was on about.

 

“Man, I wish I could remember how I figured this out.” Sans rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “Okay. Don’t focus on where we are,” he said, adjusting his grip on Papyrus’ arm. “Just pay attention to…” He blinked, mouth twisting downward. “Huh. Well, just pay attention. You’ll know it when you feel it.”

 

Without any further warning, they were on the move. Or rather, the world seemed to move while they stood still, new locations kaleidoscoping around them faster than Papyrus could process. He shut his eyesockets to block out some of the sensory overload.

 

He didn’t know what Sans wanted him to pay attention to, if not their here-and-gone-again surroundings. Sans wasn’t doing anything obvious to move them around. As far as magic went, it was beyond understated.

 

In the dark, with the changing ambient sounds running together into white noise, Papyrus…noticed something. It was subtle, a tug that wasn’t entirely physical and lasted just a fraction of a second each time they moved. Something that drew him like iron to a magnet, or water down a drain.

 

Was that it? Was that Sans’ 'shortcut’?

 

It was very hot all of a sudden, and he heard Sans mutter “Oh, whoops.”

 

Against his better judgment, Papyrus opened his eye sockets to a solid wall (floor?) of glowing orange.

 

By the time he yelled, they were standing safely in an alley in New Home.

 

“Ha,” Sans said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Kinda overshot that last one. Won’t happen again.”

 

Papyrus glared. “No, it won’t.” He’d known this little escapade would end in disaster. _Near_ disaster still counted.

 

Sans sighed, turning to follow Papyrus out of the alley onto the street. “Aw, c'mon. We’re not walking all the way back home, are we? I’m good to-”

 

“You’re good to drop us into a magma pool,” Papyrus grumbled, cutting him off, “or bisect us through a wall, or something foolish like that.”

 

Normally, he could handle Sans’ flouting of the 'current laws of physics as they are generally understood’ perfectly well. Finding himself above one of Hotland’s natural wonders waiting for gravity to notice him, however, had been more than a little scary. That was quite enough of that until Sans sobered up.

 

“Aww.” Sans dragged his feet on the cobblestones. “Bro, it’s _miles._ ”

 

“The fresh air will do you good.” Papyrus looked up and down the street. There was probably a cafe nearby, or a stall where they could get a bite to eat. Possibly coffee, in Sans’ case. Might as well make a day of it, since they were here. “Besides, I think I noticed that…thing, so mission accomplished.”

 

Sans brightened, straightening out of his dejected slump. “Oh, yeah? It’s weird, right?”

 

It had been weird. Like slipping out of the world, just as Sans had described.

 

His mind drifted back to more practical matters as he spied a tapas bar on the corner. Perfect. “We can discuss it over dinner? And coffee,” he added pointedly.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Sans said, too pleased by his demonstration working to be upset or embarrassed about being cut off. “I wonder if this means you can learn to do it, too.” He nodded to himself, looking so thoughtful it was worrying. “I bet you could…”


	5. Watch where you're swinging that thing, kid (Legend of Zelda crossover)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For patchesgryphon, Link (I went with the Hero of Time, post-Majora's Mask) encountering some very strange Stalfos.
> 
> Warnings: none.

Link thrashed in the air, trying to reach the wallmaster he couldn’t see, but it was only magic that held him aloft. Was this the Stalfos’ doing? He’d never encountered a Stalfos that could perform magic.

 

“Easy, kid,” a voice said. “Put that thing away.”

 

Shock made him drop his sword, a serious blunder that he barely noticed. Link stared at the source of the voice. Had the Stalfos just _spoken_ to him?

 

Shrugging, the Stalfos ambled over to where the sword had landed in the snow and picked it up. “That works, too, I guess,” it said, backing up a few paces. It gestured with its other hand, and Link found himself set down gently on his feet again.

 

Faced with an unfamiliar enemy who now held his sword in one bony hand, Link held his shield up before him, braced for an attack and wishing Tatl were here to explain this strange new variety of Stalfos.

 

Or Navi.

 

How long had he been searching, now? He very much doubted he’d find her here in this odd underground kingdom. Loneliness swelled up under the apprehension and fear.

 

The Stalfos examined the blade in its hand, a look of surprise somehow crossing its skull face. “What’s a kid like you doing with an actual sword? You could hurt someone with this thing.”

 

Link huffed in indignation despite himself. He was short for his age, yes, but he wasn’t a little kid! Why shouldn’t he have a blade? Goddesses knew it had saved his life countless times.

 

Until he’d dropped it just now, anyway. His face flushed hot, and he raised his shield slightly to hide it.

 

“What?” The Stalfos side-eyed him curiously. “You want it back?”

 

Why wasn’t it attacking him? Even its stance radiated unconcern now that Link was disarmed. Cautiously, Link nodded. Yes, he wanted his sword back. Very much.

 

The Stalfos idly swung the blade once, like it was a great novelty. Maybe swords were unusual in this place. “Okay,” it said, swinging the sword once more to listen to the swish of air it made. “I’ll make you a deal. My brother’s been kinda down lately, and he’s always wanted to see a human– you are a human, right?”

 

Hesitantly, Link nodded.

 

“Cool. So, be a sport and cheer up my brother, and I’ll give this back to you.” The Stalfos shrugged. “On the condition that you don’t hurt anyone with it, of course. Oh, and on that note,” it went on, face going distressingly blank. “If you try anything with my brother like you just tried with me, I really won’t be happy about it. Got it?”

 

Link nodded again, without hesitation. He hadn’t noticed how expressive that skull was until it _stopped_ expressing.

 

The Stalfos relaxed, its strange face taking on a friendlier look again. “Good,” it said. “Sorry to get all spooky on you, but you know how it is. You got a family?”

 

Thoughts returning to Navi, Link shook his head, frowning. He was not going to get sniffly in front of a monster. Not even one that talked and wasn’t trying to kill him for some reason.

 

“Oh.” The Stalfos shuffled its feet, suddenly awkward. “Sorry to hear that, kid. Anyway,” it said, fidgeting with the sword, “my brother is pretty harmless. Just, y'know, indulge us for today– get your property back. Sound fair?”

 

Fair or not, Link wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. He doubted he’d be able to get close enough to make use of his shield, and in any case this Stalfos was strangely non-aggressive. It also talked, and felt uncomfortably like a…person. Defending himself against monsters was a simple necessity, but attacking a person, especially a person who didn’t seem too interested in harming him, didn’t sit right.

 

He couldn’t be sure this wasn’t a trap, but then again he was already unarmed. It hardly seemed necessary for the Stalfos to go to any further trouble if it meant him harm.

 

Link nodded, resolute.

 

 

 

Link hadn’t known what to expect from his bargain with the strange Stalfos, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

 

He held the orb securely with both hands, being careful to step in the taller Stalfos’ footprints as he navigated the maze. Had the brother meant to show him the safe route? If so, this seemed a little pointless, not to mention patronizing.

 

If it meant avoiding electrocution, though, he wasn’t about to complain.

 

“Wowie!” The taller Stalfos clapped politely as Link stepped over the border of the maze. “You solved it so quickly!”

 

Link handed over the orb, grateful to be rid of it. The taller Stalfos put it away, looking fretful.

 

“I hope I didn’t make it too easy,” it said, rubbing its chin with a gloved hand. “Or maybe you just really like puzzles!” It leaned down to Link’s eye level, its long scarf trailing in the snow, and grinning (somehow) with manic glee. “Is that it? You like puzzles?”

 

Puzzles and death traps littered every dungeon and temple Link had ever set foot in, and thus he was well-practiced at solving them, but he wouldn’t go so far as to say he _liked_ them. It was hard to like something that was designed to halt his progress at best and kill him at worst.

 

A soft yet unmistakable cough erupted from the shorter Stalfos, drawing Link’s attention. The Stalfos gave him a wink (how did they _do_ that?) and a small nod. It waggled the sword it still held in its hand for good measure.

 

Turning back to the taller Stalfos, who was waiting with bated breath on his answer, Link nodded. Sure. He liked puzzles. Loved them, in fact, as long as his sword was being held hostage.

 

The taller Stalfos laughed delightedly, clasping its hands together. “Oh, a kindred spirit! Wonderful! Well, don’t you worry, human,” it said, tossing its scarf back over its shoulder. “There’s plenty more where this came from! I’ll make the next one extra challenging, just for you!”

 

Oh, good.

 

As the taller Stalfos bustled off down the path to the next obstacle, its brother flashed Link an approving smile.

 

 

 

To Link’s surprise, the next puzzle actually was a puzzle.

 

“It’s more apparent from a distance,” the taller Stalfos said, bouncing on its heels in excitement, “but you’ll note that it’s a self portrait!”

 

Studying the irregular patterns of ground switches and piled-up snow, Link supposed it might resemble a face, somewhat. He wasn’t going to climb a tree to get a better look. Instead, he grinned in what he hoped was an appreciative way.

 

That seemed to be the right thing to do, if the shorter Stalfos’ expression was anything to go by. Hopefully that meant Link was that much closer to getting his sword back.

 

“Right!” The taller Stalfos rubbed its hands together. “Prepare to be hopelessly confounded by the mental acumen of the Great Papyrus!”

 

They had names? Well, Link supposed they couldn’t just call each other ‘hey, you!’ all the time.

 

Did that mean all Stalfos had names? Were these two special in some way? Kokiri lore held that those who became lost in the deep forest, in places of old magic, were doomed to wander as Stalfos long after their flesh returned to the earth. It said nothing about the soul of the person inside that flesh.

 

That was…uncomfortable. Link had dispatched countless Stalfos, Stalchildren, Gibdos… Never mind that they were already dead– he hated to think he might have been re-killing actual people and not just reanimated automatons.

 

“So, what you have to do,” the taller…Papyrus said, pulling Link from his thoughts, “is walk over the pressure plates and turn all those lit-up patterns from X’s to O’s. But! You can only walk across each one once, otherwise-”

 

The shorter…Papyrus’ brother cleared its… _his_ throat. “Bro? You’re gonna give away the answer.”

 

“Oh!” Papyrus clapped a hand over his mouth with a muffled clack. “You’re right! Sorry,” he said to Link, though Link wasn’t sure why he’d be upset about getting the answer. “I’m just so excited! I spent hours on this one. Go on and try to solve it if you dare!” With a laugh that failed in every way to be maniacal, the Stalfos brushed the snow from a convenient tree stump and sat down to spectate.

 

His brother joined him, absently tapping the sword blade against the wood. Ugh, that would dull the edge…

 

Circling the puzzle to determine a good starting point, Link wondered whether solving it or failing would make the pair happier. That Papyrus fellow was sending a lot of mixed signals, antagonistic and boasting in one breath and amiable the next.

 

The first try was a failure, and Papyrus radiated smug satisfaction as he pulled the concealed lever that reset the switch tiles.

 

The second try was a failure, as well.

 

By the third try, Link had a pathway worked out,  but took a wrong turn on purpose.

 

“You nearly had it,” Papyrus said as he reset the switches once more. “Would you like a hint?” The Stalfos couldn’t seem to keep up the act, too excited by the prospect of having his work appreciated to make more than a token effort at actually thwarting the invader.

 

If only all creatures of darkness were like this, it would make Link’s life much easier.

 

At a cue from Papyrus’ brother, Link shook his head. He could solve the puzzle himself.

 

Papyrus nodded sagely. “Yes, naturally you’ll want to solve it on your own. Proceed, then!”

 

When Link did solve the puzzle, Papyrus congratulated him whole-heartedly, seemingly forgetting the purpose of the puzzle in the first place. The point was driven home further when the three of them found the path forward still blocked by metal spikes.

 

Papyrus huffed in irritation. “Oh, the dratted thing much have seized up again!” He aimed a kick at one of the spikes. “Well, there’s my weekend gone.”

 

His brother shrugged. “Eh. So, I guess that puzzle was kinda _point_ less, huh?”

 

“Don’t you start with me,” Papyrus said, whirling on his brother. “I’m having a good day, and I don’t need any of your usual…” He pawed helplessly at the air. “Any of your…flapdoodle!”

 

“Fine, you don’t have to get _sharp_ about it.” Papyrus’ brother flashed Link a sly smile. “So, bro, did we head off the human invasion? Impenetrable spiky barrier, and all?”

 

“Of course not!” Papyrus gestured back toward the switch puzzle. “He solved it, didn’t he? Technical difficulties don’t count, Sans, have some pride in your work!” He turned to Link. “I apologize, this is really very embarrassing. It’s the snow, you see. Gets in and refreezes around the gears. Here,” he said, reaching for Link.

 

Link had allowed himself to relax around these two, and didn’t react fast enough to dodge Papyrus’ grab. He found himself scooped up– with a great force of will, he did not panic. He had a feeling that so much as a stray kick or elbow jab would be enough to rouse the other Stalfos’–Sans’– displeasure.

 

He wanted his sword back. He also didn’t want a fight on his hands, not with these two. For Stalfos, Link was finding that he rather liked them. They were good fellows, for undead servants of evil.

 

Papyrus carried him over the spikes, his longer legs clearing them easily in one leap. Sans, despite being no taller than Link himself, was waiting for them on the other side.

 

“There we are,” Papyrus said, setting Link down. “Sorry about that,” he repeated. “I know it’s probably not as satisfying when the trap doesn’t deactivate.”

 

He looked so crestfallen that Link found himself giving the Stalfos a reassuring pat on the arm and a smile. Papyrus wasn’t much good at keeping intruders at bay, but he still worked very hard.

 

Papyrus recovered quickly. “Yes, I suppose the solution was reward enough. You’re absolutely right!” He grinned. “The next one is even better! You’ll be stymied for sure!”

 

_Another_ one? Oh, well. Link had explored far worse dungeons inhabited by far worse monsters than these. And it was…sort of nice to have some company.

 

Papyrus hurried ahead again, and Sans coughed his gentle cough. Link turned to face him.

 

“I saw that,” Sans said, and was he _really_ picking his teeth with the sword? Really? “That’s the first real smile I’ve seen from you, kid. You’re doing good. He’s acting a lot more like himself.”

 

Link flinched back, but Sans only held out the sword for him to take back.

 

That was it? He was done? Link grasped the hilt of his sword, instantly feeling more comfortable. Slowly, he sheathed it.

 

Sans shrugged. “There. Pleasure doing business with you, kid.”

 

Link blinked, frowning. Wasn’t there another puzzle still? Was he supposed to just…ditch?

 

That didn’t seem very nice.

 

“Of course,” Sans said, “if you wanted to put in some overtime, you’d earn some Cool Dude points with yours truly.” He winked that anatomically impossible wink. “Might come in handy later.”

 

Well, then. Link knew from experience the value of doing someone a favor.

 

He smiled and set off down the path, following the footprints.


	6. My Dear(ie) Sir (platonic Muffet and Grillby)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For leshoog, non-shippy Muffet and Grillby interaction. (Sorry about Grillby being Sir-Not-Appearing-In-This-Fic, but the letter format wouldn't leave me alone...)

FROM: Her Royal Majesty Queen Muffet of the United Clans of Spider

Hotland

Box 15

 

TO: Sir Grillby of

Snowdin Town

Box 7

 

17 February

 

Dear Sir,

 

We were introduced six months ago on the occasion of our mutual friend Mrs. Cooke’s daughter’s debut. Was most pleased to make your acquaintance and will move straight to the main business:

 

As you know, I am an entrepreneur in a similar vein as yourself, though lacking a dedicated building have taken up decentralized distribution of product. This venture has enjoyed some success, save that I am not able to go into business in your own province owing to the disagreeable climate therein.

 

I propose an arrangement be reached whereby my comestibles be sold in your establishment, with a percentage of the proceeds remaining with you as compensation. I believe such an arrangement would prove beneficial to both parties– to me for reasons which are obvious, but looking over the current alimentary offerings of your own establishment I daresay my involvement shall profit you as well.

 

I look forward to your reply and am

 

Yours Truly,

Muffet, Queen of Spiders

 

 

 

FROM: Her Royal Majesty Queen Muffet of the United Clans of Spider

Hotland

Box 15

 

TO: Sir Grillby of

Snowdin Town

Box 7

 

20 February

 

Dear Sir,

 

Was most pleased to receive your prompt response. To forge an alliance with the United Clans shows you a most prudent and foresighted gentleman and speaks well of your great strength of character. I am sure this venture will be a great success.

 

My spiders will require lodging when they arrive (I have arranged suitable transportation for about 35 of them via a mutual acquaintance, will send a wire with details) though no special effort need be undertaken on your part, my dear sir. If there is a cellar or attic which goes largely undisturbed they shall be happy enough, and will keep well out of your own way.

 

They will require use of your kitchen, but as I am given to understand your particular cooking methods I do not anticipate that you will be much put out by this.

 

Prices for each item are listed on the enclosed spreadsheet, with allowances made for taxes. Please inform if Snowdin levies any addition tax or duty and I will make adjustments accordingly. 10% to stay with you, calculated from the end-of-day gross sales, if that is agreeable.

 

Yours Truly,

Muffet, Queen of Spiders

 

 

 

 

 

FROM: Her Royal Majesty Queen Muffet of the United Clans of Spider

Hotland

Box 15

 

TO: Sir Grillby of

Snowdin Town

Box 7

 

2 March

 

My Dear Sir,

 

I couldn’t be more pleased with this week’s revenue, as I’m sure you agree. What a splendid idea this was if I say so myself!

 

Please don’t mind the cobwebs. I’ve had correspondence from Jeanette that you’ve been dusting the rafters quite assiduously, which aside from creating unnecessary extra work for yourself, also slows my spiders’ decorating efforts. Give the webs a chance, my dear sir, and I am sure you will find the ambiance of the establishment much improved.

 

Per your request, I have sent reminders to Pierre that the kitchen crew is not to leave pans in the sink overnight. My apologies– scrubbing is quite difficult when one is so small, extra arms notwithstanding. I’m sure you understand.

 

Yours Truly,

Muffet, Queen of Spiders

 

 

 

FROM: Her Royal Majesty Queen Muffet of the United Clans of Spider

Hotland

Box 15

 

TO: Sir Grillby of

Snowdin Town

Box 7

 

15 March

 

My Dear Sir,

 

I hope this letter finds you well. Revenues continue to grow at a most gratifying pace– please note that I have sent word to Jeanette that your cut is to be raised to 15% at the end of this month. No thanks is necessary as your lovely establishment and valued partnership is partly responsible for this latest progress toward the United Clans’ fundraising goal.

 

The high tone of your previous missive leads me to suspect a slight misunderstanding which must have taken place at the start of our venture. The agreed upon contingent was 35 adult spiders, in this you are perfectly correct. Perhaps it is not common knowledge in Snowdin province (and I’m sure that is reasonable, considering the climate, etc), but the egg cases of aforementioned spiders cannot simply be left unattended. As a father yourself, I’m sure you can understand their position.

 

Please convey my congratulations to Jeanette, Aimee, Nicole, and Suzette and ask that they watch for a parcel either this week or next as I am nearly finished with my knitting (only 200 pairs of mittens to go– children mustn’t go without such articles in such an inclement environment). I am certain, my dear sir, that you will come to treasure their presence and while they are numerous they take up hardly any space and are largely quiet and well-behaved little dears.

 

Again, I must ask that you not disturb the cobwebs. Your (or perhaps I ought to say ‘our’) customers will grow accustomed to the improved décor directly, and they are not so much of a fire hazard, surely. Your establishment is built of wood, after all, is it not?

 

Yours Truly,

Muffet, Queen of Spiders

 

 

 

FROM: Her Royal Majesty Queen Muffet of the United Clans of Spider

Hotland

Box 15

 

TO: Sir Grillby of

Snowdin Town

Box 7

 

17 March

 

My Dearest Sir,

 

There is no need for incivility. Please note that I have instructed Jeanette to increase your cut to 20% of the gross, effective immediately. I have also sent instruction to keep the children confined to the attic during business hours. I trust this will go some way toward allaying any discomfiture you may be currently experiencing.

 

I’m afraid the webs will be spun afresh by morning, and so I must urge you again to save yourself the effort of dusting them away. I am certain that you will grow to enjoy them if you give them a few days’ time to charm you, ~~dearie~~ my dear sir.

 

Please also remind your customers to watch where they step. I have sent my condolences to Pierre, but if it is within your power to acquire a small flower of any variety in accordance with spider custom, such would be much appreciated.

 

Yours Truly,

Muffet, Queen of Spiders

 

 

 

FROM: Her Royal Majesty Queen Muffet of the United Clans of Spider

Hotland

Box 15

 

TO: Sir Grillby of

Snowdin Town

Box 7

 

20 March

 

My Dear Sir,

 

Please convey my sincere thanks to your daughter for the flower. I have word that Pierre was much consoled by it. The singe marks did not lessen the loveliness of the bloom, I am sure.

 

I am most gratified also to hear that the new percentage meets with your approval. Such misunderstandings are to be expected in a new partnership. The children will endear themselves to you, dearie, and soon enough you will find your establishment far more convivial for their presence. I shall endeavor to remind my spiders that the children are not to wander in your personal living space, but you know how children are!

 

I’m afraid I’ve no more to say on the matter of the cobwebs. You may continue to dust them away every day if such a pointless task pleases you. The artistic temperament and superior work ethic of a spider cannot be discouraged. We must simply agree to disagree.

 

I remain, as ever,

 

Yours Truly,

Muffet, Queen of Spiders


	7. Some things are for you alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For chad34stuff, grieving Papyrus. 
> 
> Warning: Major character death.

He knew it was coming. He’d known for a long time.

 

You knew it was coming, too, but you made yourself forget.

 

You buried it under a thousand “maybes” and “somedays” and hopes for a cure. It was a foe to be fought and defeated. At worst, it was something looming distant in the future. Something for later, that couldn’t be allowed to ruin the present moment.

 

“Later” arrives quietly, late at night.

 

You scarcely remember the first few days after later becomes now and forever. That time is filled with the effort of clawing and grasping for the next second of existence, and the next. Your friends come to the house and help you make the arrangements that need to be made, make sure you eat and rest and all the other mechanical necessities of living. You let them guide you like a wind-up doll. Let them attempt, and fail, to comfort you in the waking nightmare that has finally come true.

 

You remember everyone crying but you. The tears won’t come, even when you try. Too empty. Too numb.

 

You come to the realization that you are alone during the wake, in your home which is crowded with your friends, and his friends. Each word of sympathy and every hug a new cut that bleeds and drains the last dregs of your composure. You run upstairs and lock yourself in your bedroom.

 

For days afterward, one or another of your friends stands by, guarding you. They fear you falling. You don’t know what they intend to do to stop it, if that’s what is fated to happen. You aren’t sure you even want them to save you if it does. You say as much aloud once. You learn not to say it again.

 

His room can’t remain an untouched museum forever. Your friends offer to help you go through his things, but you refuse. He was your brother, not theirs. Some things are for you alone to do.

 

For a week, you try and fail to turn the handle, to open the door. You find yourself sitting on the floor in the hallway at three in the morning, unable to sleep and unable to enter his room and unable to do anything but cry. The tears come late, but they come, and you wail agony alone in your empty house. You beat your knuckles bruised against the door, scream yourself hoarse, sob yourself sick.

 

Because he is still gone. Because later is now and forever, and the permanence of it is crushing you slowly. Because you feel like half a person, and your soul is glacier-cold and heavy as stone and _hurting_.

 

You resent your friends for how swiftly they appear to move on, though you know in the back of your mind that anything sooner than “never” is too soon for your liking. There is a hole in the world, an empty space where he should be. One by one, they all turn a blind eye to that empty space, fill it in with happy memories and stories and leave you alone with the hole that is still there, will always be there.

 

Some nights, you sit and read every text and listen to every voice mail on your phone just to see his words, hear his voice. When you reach the end, you return to the beginning. None of the messages are about anything important. You wish you’d saved more of them. You wish you had prepared better for what was on the horizon.

 

You wonder how much you will forget in the years to come. The cadence of his footsteps, his favorite song, the way his grin shifted just slightly when he thought up a truly awful pun. All these little things will be carried away by time, and the thought makes you feel so much older than you’ve ever felt before.

 

It’s a marrow-deep, pragmatic morality that finally spurs you into his bedroom, armed with cardboard boxes. Hoarding things that others might need is not what good monsters do.

 

The bed linens are long gone, but you avoid looking in that direction anyway. It’s the last place he was, where you found what was left. You’re not ready.

 

You focus on the floor, which is as trashed as always. At first you hurry, wanting to be done and out of his room again as soon as possible. You force yourself to slow down, though, because you’re picking up after him for the final time.

 

At the bottom of his sock drawer there is an envelope with your name on it. Inside is a letter for you, from him.

 

There is nothing in the letter that he didn’t say in person dozens or hundreds of times. He had known what was coming, after all. You read the letter three times, and when the tears inevitably come they’re not quite as bitter.

 

Months pass, and there is work to be done and bills to be paid and life to live that won’t wait forever.

 

You are not okay. You’re not sure you’ll ever really be happy again, but now and then you have a good day. Some days are worse than others, too, colorless and cold. Lonely, despite your good friends and your nice coworkers and all the life around you.

 

Some days start out fine and summer-warm.

 

And your mind, treacherous and forgetful, will hear a joke that he’s sure to like, or see something in a shop that would be perfect for his birthday.

 

And you remember, and you shatter all over again, paste yourself back together all over again.

 

You almost cancel the cross-country road trip the two of you had planned, but the vacation days are already scheduled and you can’t bear to sit in your empty house for two weeks. You assure your friends that you’ll be fine on your own. You accept their mix-tapes and snacks and gas money graciously.

 

The tapes are nice, and you enjoy listening to them on the road, though some of the songs make you weepy and you have to pull over until you calm down. They’re not sad songs, but they’re too familiar.

 

You drive in silence for a while, letting the drone of the engine grind every thought out of your head.

 

It’s a clear night, and dark. You’re on a stretch of highway hours away from anything but fields of wheat and wild prairie, and you’re getting too tired to drive safely. You pull off onto a gravel shoulder for a quick nap, but the seat is uncomfortable no matter how you adjust it, and you give up.

 

His telescope is in the trunk, and for a minute you think about setting it up. But you wouldn’t know where to aim it or what you’re looking at without him. Instead, you lay back on the hood of the car and admire the diamond-strewn sky, listen to the crickets and the wind rustling through the grass like ocean waves.

 

You can still pick out a few constellations he showed you, and you’re suddenly grateful that he had the chance to see real stars, that you got to see him happy and content. He would have liked this– lying nowhere in particular in the quiet countryside on the still-warm metal of the hood, with his favorite view overhead. You cover your eyes when cars pass by, which isn’t often, to keep the headlights from dazzling you. You look at the stars for hours, drinking them in as though you’re living for two people instead of just yourself.

 

A deep peacefulness settles inside you. It’s not happiness– you’re not happy. You’re still carrying your sorrow, and you always will even if time makes you notice it less. The hole will always be there even if time makes the ache softer.

 

The last line of his letter drifts up through your memory, unbidden.

 

“I love you. I’m okay. You’re going to be okay, too.”

 

Finally, finally, you’re starting to believe him.


	8. 2 sickfics for the price of 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two short sickfics in one easy-to-swallow, fast-acting chapter!
> 
> For anonymous, who wanted sickly Sans with nurse Papyrus on the case.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> For ~British~ anonymous, who wanted a poorly Papyrus.  
> Warnings: poorly Papyrus projectile puking! :D

"The blue wizard needs spoons badly"

 

Papyrus kept the volume down on the TV, flipping through channels until he settled on one that was playing some old human cartoons– the ones with the inexplicably under-dressed rabbit monster foiling a human huntsman. That would be perfect for today– funny and easy to follow.

 

Next he set about making the lumpy couch more comfortable, adding the pillows from his bed and spare blankets from the hall closet. With the couch suitably improved and an electric blanket plugged in and warming up (their best find at the dump all year), Papyrus headed to the kitchen to fix some breakfast.

 

He let the tea steep long enough to get obnoxiously strong, then added two heaping tablespoons of sugar to the mug. With that done, he dug a container of plain noodles out of the fridge and put a generous serving into a soup bowl. Into the bowl also went half a bottle of hot sauce, just enough mayonnaise to keep the noodles from sticking together, and a generous amount of salt and pepper. Then the bowl went back in the fridge to stay chilled.

 

While he worked, he could hear slow, shuffling footsteps coming down the stairs.

 

Papyrus returned to the living room with the mug in one hand and the bowl of spicy noodles in the other. He set them carefully on the floor where Sans could reach.

 

“Thanks, bro,” came a thready voice from the center of the electric blanket burrito that had taken up residence on the couch.

 

Settling down at the other end of the couch, Papyrus picked up the sudoku book he’d been working on (another good find– most of the hard puzzles hadn’t even been attempted by whatever human had thrown it away). “You’re welcome.”

 

Sans poked his head out of the blanket, making him look like an under-the-weather caterpillar. “I swear, you always seem to know when a flare-up’s coming before I do.” His face was drawn and pale.

 

“We were quite busy yesterday,” Papyrus said, erasing an errant nine. Aside from their sentry shifts, they’d also gone grocery shopping, taken a few unneeded items to the junk shop, and met up with Undyne and Alphys for karaoke. It had been a fun day, but for Sans doing that much at once came at a price.

 

“Yeah,” Sans said, and sighed. “Overdid it a little.”

 

Papyrus studied Sans over the top of the sudoku book. “Possibly.”

 

Sans fidgeted, trying vainly to get comfortable. Bad days meant more aches and pains than usual. “I wish I could just do things,” he muttered, bitterly.

 

Not for the first time, Papyrus, who always had more energy than he knew what to do with, wished he could give some of his good health to his brother. Instead, all he could do was encourage Sans to go out and live, and then help him rest when that inevitably wiped him out.

 

“We got a lot accomplished, though,” Papyrus said, “so I think we’ve earned a quiet day.” He’d already gone for his morning run, and there was plenty of housework to keep him occupied later, once Sans had settled in and the edge was off his fatigue hangover.

 

The morning, however, was for quiet and calm.

 

Sans freed one arm and took a sip of sweet tea. “That sounds perfect, bro.”

 

“Yes, I thought so.”

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

"The microchip has been compromised"

 

“It’s n-nothing serious,” Alphys said, putting her instruments away. “Looks like m-magic flux. It’s been g-going around, and this year’s strain is p-pretty bad.”

 

Sans didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. “Thanks, Al. I knew it was probably nothing– just paranoid, I guess.”

 

Alphys smiled. “It’s n-no trouble. A couple d-days’ rest, and he’ll be…be back to his usual self.”

 

“Preposterous,” Papyrus croaked. His bones glowed softly with fever. “I _never_ get sick, and I’m not wasting two days loafing around in bed. I have things to do.”

 

Flinging the covers aside, he tried to climb out of bed.  As soon as he was upright, a dizzy spell dropped him flat again. He groaned.

 

Alphys nodded thoughtfully. “D-definitely magic flux.”

 

Papyrus’ derisive snort came out as a weak sniffle.

 

“Man, I can’t remember the last time he got sick.” Sans rubbed the back of his head, taking in the pitiful sight. “Guess you were due, bro.”

 

“Stupid,” Papyrus grumbled. “Not sick…”

 

The fever-glow pulsed brighter. With a muttered ‘uh-oh,’ Papyrus leaned over the side of his bed just in time to retch into the bucket on the floor. A few drops of stray excess magic sizzled scorch marks into the carpet.

 

Wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant hacking sounds, Alphys turned back to Sans. “Uh, m-make sure he’s g-getting plenty of fluids,” she said, ignoring Papyrus’ continuing protests. “I can s-stay and help out if…if you’d like…?” She looked at the floor, as though the offer were rude somehow.

 

“Unnecessary,” Papyrus said, still draped over the cut-out racecar. “Nothing a quick ten-mile run won’t fix. Just need some fresh air…” Fumbling for a moment, he planted his hands on the floor and dragged himself out of bed, where he lay face-down on the carpet. Muffled nonsense and gurgling noises drifted up from the floor.

 

Sans grimaced. “Yeah, Al, I think maybe you better stick around.”


	9. 3 times Frisk has an unpleasant interval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mull it over"  
> For anon: Post-genocide run Frisk.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Nipped in the bud"  
> For petalspitter: Sans doesn't keep his promise.  
> Warnings: death, light gore.
> 
> "Nihilism is a super power if you use it right"  
> For zichqecs-hoard: Sans' giving it the old college try in the judgement hall, forever.  
> Warnings: death, light gore.

"Mull it over"

 

 

You didn’t have to. You can spin it any way you want, but the truth is that you didn’t have to.

 

There’s no one left to say “I told you so.” You say the words aloud just to hear a sound other than the sighing wind. It doesn’t help.

 

It wasn’t even fun. Not that it was particularly hard, but it wasn’t fun.

 

Tedious. That’s what it was.

 

So why’d you do it? Curiosity. There was a saying about curiosity, about cats and the killing of same.

 

But no amount of satisfaction is ever going to bring them back. You woke something down here, and you used it, and you let it wear you like an itchy sweater. You fed it. It fed from you.

 

And now this. This isn’t like the other times, and it’s not going to change. You’ve finally pushed too far and done something you can’t undo. That thought is still a little thrilling, but it’s already wearing thin and the boredom that follows will be endless and absolute. A hell of your own making. No one to blame, no one to beg forgiveness from.

 

Just you.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

"Nipped in the bud"

 

 

It didn’t hurt. That was the really strange thing. They could look down and see the blood-slicked spar of white jutting from their chest and see the dark stain growing (their favorite shirt was ruined, and why did that even register?) They could feel the blood that was so warm against chilly skin.

 

But they couldn’t feel the wound.

 

They lurched forward, thoughtless, trying to get away from the being that had already killed them. With a wet squelch, the bone spar slid free, a nauseating dragging sensation through their chest.

 

The blood ran faster without anything to block it. They turned, already dizzy with shock and blood loss, and stumbled.

 

Their killer caught them in his arms. He held them gently, but at a little distance. Avoiding blood on his jacket.

 

They looked up into a white, smiling face. Or…no, he wasn’t smiling. It might have been a grimace, or a sneer, even, but it was hard to tell with their vision fading.

 

It was cold.

 

They were woozy.

 

Their shirt was ruined.

 

Their killer sighed, shaking his head. “Sorry, buddy. On balance, you’re just not worth all the trouble.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

"Nihilism is a super power if you use it right"

 

 

Well, well, well. That was the face of someone who’d lost…hmm. Come to think of it, Sans couldn’t guess how many times this must have made. Good. That meant that what he planned to do in a few minutes was the right move.

 

Maybe “planned” wasn’t the right word. The real trick was _not_ to plan– to surprise himself, to be as impulsive as possible. To second-guess and change his mind. Predictability meant They’d be able to learn and eventually memorize everything he said and did. They were probably managing it slowly regardless of his changing whims, but he’d milk it for all it was worth.

 

For the present moment, his efforts were worthwhile just to see the rage and frustration twisting that doughy little face.

 

_Yeah. Think you’re real hot shit, don’t you?_

 

Sans sneered. Probably a lot easier to beat someone who refused to fight back. Well, he didn’t intend to go down easy.

 

He felt the urge to speak, caught Them lower their eyelids in a disinterested pout.

 

_Oh? Fine, then,_ _brat_ _._

 

Their eyes widened in shock, and they moved to dive aside a half-second too late. A very short while later, Their small body, charred and perforated, cracked a floor tile as it landed.

 

Sans sauntered forward to nudge the wet, stinking heap on the floor with his toe. Yep, They couldn’t get much deader than that. It wouldn’t stick, but with the mood he was in, he didn’t even mind all that much.

 

They thought they could wear him down? He started fresh every time they tried again. How could he be tired if the fight hadn’t happened yet? They thought they could anticipate him? Hell, _he_ didn’t even know what he was doing.

 

And every time they came back– even if he couldn’t really remember it, he _knew._ All the pain They suffered, every death, every furious tantrum (because, no, you can’t have your way _this_ time) was written all over Their face for him to see. And he reveled in it, as hollow as the victories were. He’d kill them as many times as he possibly could, wring every last drop of blood from Them again and again for as long as it took, until they either gave up or won.

 

Let this be his purgatory. He didn’t care. What else was he going to do?

 

Sans glared down at the mess of meat on the floor. What were They waiting for? Did it always take this long? He couldn’t remember. Impatient for once, he aimed a kick at Them. The body rolled onto its side, Their neck lolling at an unnatural angle. He knelt down beside Them, heedless of the cooling blood puddling on the floor, to hiss into Their ear.

 

“Get up, you dirty brother killer.”


	10. Just a nice pair of shorts (FINAGLC shorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon, domestic blaster fluff.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> For anon, Papyrus and Undyne go for a run.  
> Warnings: none.

"Sleepy-time death ray"

 

 

Papyrus didn’t like summoning his blaster in the house. It felt…wrong. The house was safe, and the blaster had no place in it.

 

From a more practical standpoint, he’d already had to mud over a few gouges in the ceiling where the skull’s horns had scraped the plaster. His control was good enough now that he had little reason to worry about the blaster going off and taking out a wall, or something, but it could do plenty of damage just by running into things. It was big, and ungainly in close quarters.

 

For now, it rested on the floor of his bedroom. Attacks couldn’t feel things like relaxation or discomfort, but the blaster nonetheless looked more comfortable than Papyrus felt. He fussed with the pillows, as if some stray clump of feathers or stuffing was the reason he’d been lying awake so long.

 

Sans watched him arrange and rearrange pillows and blankets, leaning on the blaster and fighting to stay awake. “Someone sneak a pea under the mattress?” 

 

He was being very patient for someone who’d been woken up at three in the morning. Again.

 

“Sorry,” Papyrus said, forcing himself to settle down and be still. He was very tired, and he very much wanted to get some sleep, but at the same time… Well, sleeping wasn’t a very pleasant experience lately.

 

“’S fine.” Stifling a yawn, Sans rested his head on his arms. “Sure you don’t want me to stay here?”

 

Papyrus nodded. He wasn’t a child who needed someone to keep the bogeyman away.

 

Sans shrugged. “'Kay. Guess you’ll let me know if you change your mind, ha.”

 

“…Sorry.”

 

“Quit apologizing,” Sans mumbled, frowning. “Like I don’t have nightmares, too…” He scratched above the blaster’s eye socket, and Papyrus immediately felt less tense. Drowsy.

 

The blaster chuffed softly from its place on the floor.

 

Papyrus heaved a sigh and pulled the blankets around himself. There were no guarantees once he fell asleep, but for the moment he tried to enjoy the wash of safety and calm.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

"FUCK YEAH RUNNING WHOOOOOO"

 

 

They hadn’t run together in months. Undyne was prepared to drag Papyrus out of his house if it came to that, but he said yes when she asked.

 

He set a pace that made conversation impossible, all nervous energy and tension for the first couple miles. That was fine. They didn’t need to talk– that had never been Undyne’s strong suit, anyway. She wasn’t good at feelings.

 

After a while, he started to loosen up, settling into an easier pace at her side. She could see him calming down, see him start to get into the zone. Her soul rode lighter in her chest.

 

She should have done this weeks ago. Well, she hoped Papyrus was ready to run each morning with her every day for the foreseeable future, because she wanted her friend back and if running made him feel better at all then she’d gladly run forever. She’d run until her legs gave out and her heart popped out of her mouth.

 

Around mile five it was just like old times, everything falling away but the simple joy of movement.

 

She’d missed this. She’d missed him. It wasn’t often that she found someone who could keep up with her. And Papyrus could more than keep up– they inspired and pushed each other, and not just when it came to training. He was her brother from another mother, or wherever skeleton monsters came from, and she loved him and she’d missed him and she’d worried and she’d _failed_ him so badly.

 

But she could do this much. For what it was worth, she could run with him.

 

At last, they paused for breath. Kneeling by a nearby stream, Undyne cupped water in her hands and splashed it over her gills to moisten them.

 

“Doing okay, Paps?” she asked, hesitant to break the comfortable silence.

 

Papyrus nodded. “I was a little stiff, but it’s getting better.” His face lacked the guardedness he’d had when they started. Even the way he was standing had shifted, opened up.

 

Undyne smiled, showing teeth. “Good,” she said, standing. “Then you won’t have an excuse when I beat you to my place!”

 

She launched herself into motion, heard his quick footsteps just behind and gaining.

 

They ran pell-mell through the caverns, laughing and whooping like children. They ran for the sheer pleasure of it, exulting in their own strength and the magic coursing smooth and powerful through their bodies. They splashed through puddles and across streams, kicking up rooster-tails of water and delighting in the noise it made. They ran through fairy rings of mushrooms, phosphorescent spores clinging to their shoes.

 

For a short while, life was only and entirely headlong forward momentum. All was well.

 

They reached Undyne’s house all too soon. In the end it was a tie, and if either one had slowed down to let the other catch up neither would ever admit it.

 

“Thanks,” Papyrus said, leaning against the wall while Undyne unlocked her door. “I think I needed that.”

 

Yes, he certainly had. He looked worlds better, alert and pleasantly tired.

 

Undyne grinned as they went inside. “No problem! Same time tomorrow?”

 

She hoped he’d say yes. For his sake and hers. She needed this, too.

 

Papyrus smiled, the gold tooth glinting in the brighter light of the house. “Yes, I’d like that.”

 

Undyne could easily have hugged him, but she settled for giving him a hearty slap on the back so as not to spoil the mood with mushy crap. “Good! I’m gonna leave you in the dust tomorrow!”

 

She’d failed him before, but she’d do what she could now.

 

A little time each morning to just move and live and _be_. She could do that much.

 


	11. A possibility (FINAGLC short)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon, a FINAGLC alternate ending where Flowey either "won or reset."  
> Warnings: none.

The world stuttered.

 

It fell away entirely, the CD skip turned to a scratch, a head-crash.

 

Papyrus stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

 

No. _No._ That wasn’t fair! What kind of new trick was this? He _couldn’t_ escape now, not this close…

 

Wrestling his way free of the blankets, Papyrus staggered to his feet. Sans! Where was Sans? If they hurried, maybe they could get back to the forest before Flowey got away and finish this.

 

…Why was he in his pajamas?

 

 

 

 

Ten minutes later, Papyrus was beating against Sans’ door hard enough to shake it on its hinges.

 

God, please let him be in there, please, please.

 

Papyrus was rewarded with the sound of muffled cursing and hurried footsteps from inside the room. Sans flung the door wide, clearly agitated but trying, for some reason, to look nonchalant.

 

“What’s up, bro? Something wrong?”

 

That did it. Papyrus had just barely been keeping it together. This was too much.

 

“What do you mean?! Sans, we’re back at the house!”

 

Sans said nothing, just blinked up at him, expression guarded.

 

Taking a moment to coax his magic down, Papyrus began pacing the hall. “And we’re not wearing the right clothes, and it’s morning, and…” He stopped, feeling dizzy. He leaned against the hall railing to steady himself. “And something’s wrong with my phone. See?”

 

He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Sans.

 

“Looks like it’s working fine to me,” Sans said, but with a strange hesitation in his voice.

 

Papyrus stared down at the living room carpet below, tracing the pattern with his gaze. Stay calm.

 

“The date is wrong,” he said. “It’s wrong on my computer, too, and when I checked the mail the postmark was wrong.” He turned to find Sans frozen in place and staring.

 

“And look,” Papyrus went on, angling his face so Sans could see. “My…my tooth grew back.” He pushed his sleeve up to show a conspicuous lack of scars, flexed a shaking hand that was unmarked by breaks. “Everything’s better. Like it never even happened.”

 

The cell phone slipped from Sans’ hand to thud against the floor. Still, he was silent.

 

“Sans?” Papyrus couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice, and didn’t care. He was scared. “Please, help me.”

 

Sans was a million miles away, caught up in some train of thought Papyrus couldn’t guess at. At last, more to himself than Papyrus, he croaked, “You remember.”

 

Oh, there wasn’t time for this! Willing himself to pull together, Papyrus snatched at Sans’ arm. “Sans, please! I don’t know what’s going on, but if we hurry back to the forest, we might still be able to-”

 

Gently, Sans brushed Papyrus’ hand off. “Nah, bro. There’s no rush.” He was strangely calm, resigned.

 

Papyrus faltered. “What…?”

 

“God, bro, I’m sorry. Come on,” Sans sighed, leading Papyrus downstairs. “We’re gonna need coffee for this.”

 

 

 

 

There was no way. There was no possible way.

 

But here they were. And there it was.

 

“How long until…?” Papyrus didn’t want to finish the question. This was a nightmare. It had to be. He’d thought his life couldn’t get any worse, but once again he’d been proven wrong. “Until we forget?”

 

Sans shrugged, pausing his note-taking long enough to take a sip of coffee. “Not sure,” he said, glancing up at Papyrus. “Hours. Days, maybe, if we’re lucky.”

 

Papyrus shook his head. “And I won’t remember anything?”

 

“Hard to say,” Sans said, tapping his pen against his teeth. “Whatever lets me hang onto any of this, I don’t think it happened to you until now. This feels new.” He went back to scribbling down shorthand notes as if his life depended on writing down as much as he could as fast as possible.

 

Hugging himself, Papyrus shivered. Somehow, Flowey had made it all…un-happen. It already felt farther away, like a fading dream.

 

They were going to forget. They were going to go back to being ignorant and helpless.

 

“I don’t want to forget.”

 

Papyrus didn’t want to go back to thinking Flowey was his friend, that he was safe. One way or another, Papyrus had been close to being free of him, and now…? And now, he’d be right back where he started. Ready to do it all again.

 

“I don’t want to forget,” he repeated, like the words could shield him. “I don’t want to go back to him. Sans, he knows things about us now, and-”

 

“Hey.” Sans gripped his face firmly in both hands. When had he moved? It didn’t matter. He could be wherever he wanted. “It’s not gonna be like that. I promise.”

 

Papyrus blinked tears away. “But, you said…you said we’d forget everything.” They’d be at more of a disadvantage than ever. God, there really was no end in sight. Despair welled up tar-thick inside him.

 

“Not yet,” Sans snapped, startling Papyrus out of his fugue. “Got that? We still have time, so let’s not waste it, yeah?” He pulled Papyrus to his feet and grabbed his notebook.

 

Floating on the far side of panic, Papyrus barely reacted when he found himself standing with Sans in a windowless room he’d never seen before. He looked around in dumb fascination at counters filled with what looked like years’ worth of binders and notebooks. The whiteboard and even the walls themselves were covered in strange equations and Sans’ messy handwriting. A strange machine ticked away in the corner, doing who knew what.

 

Sans hurried to the whiteboard, making additions from his shorthand notes, circling this or that bit of scrawl on the board. He muttered to himself as he worked, manic in a way Papyrus had never seen.

 

“Where are we?” Even as he asked, Papyrus felt like that was a fairly unimportant question.

 

“Basement,” Sans said, not turning from his task.

 

Papyrus frowned. “But there’s nothing in the basement but the furnace and the washing machine…”  After an embarrassingly long time, he realized that the shape of the basement– the actual basement– didn’t quite match the shape of the house. Unless there was a separate room.

 

Sans aimed an apologetic glance over his shoulder. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”

 

It hadn’t occurred to Papyrus to be angry that Sans had kept another secret from him. This wasn’t the time. “What are we going to do?”

 

“That little fucker doesn’t have the element of surprise right now.” Sans crossed the room, flinging open a cupboard to rummage through the equipment inside. “I say we give _him_ a little surprise…”


	12. 2 more possibilities (FINAGLC shorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bad End #247" - For sheer-malarkey, who requested FINAGLC during a post-crushed-Papyrus timeline.   
> Warnings: death.
> 
> "temmie iz nOT gud LIFF CouCH" - For anon, who wanted Underswap FINAGLC. I'm not sure why they wanted it, but I ain't here to judge, merely to fill. ;V  
> Warnings: none.

 

"Bad End #247"

 

 

On day three, the dogs turned up his scarf. As she handed it over to Sans, Undyne insisted that it didn’t mean anything, that it had been windy lately and things got lost all the time.

 

On day four, they found every last piece of armor in his kit, badly dented and scuffed. Undyne didn’t know how to spin that one.

 

On day nine, Undyne called off the search. Five days of denial was long enough to wear even her down.

 

Sans kept searching for a few days after that, sick terror smoothing out into cold, stale nothing by the act of tirelessly looking for someone he knew he wasn’t going to find. At last, even he decided it was time to pack it in.

 

So he did.

 

For about half a day, his phone rang and chirped a lot. Once the battery died he was free of the noise. Not for long, though, because a few hours later the knocking started. Lacking the energy to yell from his bedroom, Sans kept staring at the ceiling, letting the knocking turn into pounding turn into the front door kicked in hard enough to crack the frame.

 

It took Undyne four whole minutes to find him lying on his bed. Real exemplary searching skills on display. Was it any wonder?

 

But then, he hadn’t been any less useless.

 

_Au contraire, mon frere._

 

Sans tuned out the yelling. What was Undyne getting so worked up about? He was fine. Everything was fine. It was over. They could all just relax now.

 

Undyne clearly didn’t agree. Sans let himself be dragged to his feet, let himself be dragged downstairs and outside.

 

That seemed to be the extent of Undyne’s plan. She let go of his arm, and he let himself find a nearby tree to sit under. Standing up, doing stuff, thinking…it was all a lot of work– seemed to him– with little payoff. There was nothing left to do but sit tight and wait.

 

Oh, she was yelling at him again. Sans watched her scrub at her eye and chew her lower lip hard enough to hurt herself.

 

Man, she was really upset.

 

Someone should probably try to comfort her. Damn, and Sans knew just the guy for that kinda job, but he wasn’t around.

 

Oh, well. They’d just have to be patient.

 

Right?

 

Sure.

 

 

"temmie iz nOT gud LIFF CouCH"

 

 

Papyrus craned his neck over the arm of the couch, watching his brother shuffle inside. He was a hot mess, just like every other day this week.

 

Also like every other day this week, Sans not-so-subtly avoided eye contact while he sloughed off his armor.

 

Papyrus sighed, and took a long drag off his cigarette. Sans didn’t scold him for smoking in the house.

 

Huh.

 

“You know,” he said, turning his gaze to the ceiling. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something feels very…redundant.”


	13. She's ticklish (Alphys/Undyne)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For blueeyeddagger, Alphyne fluff!  
> Warnings: none.

“Whaaat?” Undyne grabbed Alphys' hand, studying the red-painted claws. “That's so rad!”

 

Alphys blushed. She'd been going for feminine, but she'd take rad. “T-thanks...”

 

“Can you do mine?”

 

“You w-want nail p-polish?” Blinking, Alphys moved to the desk, shuffling through the clutter. She could have sworn she'd set the bottle down right here…

 

Undyne chuffed air through her gill slits. “Uh, _yeah_ ,” she said, as if she weren't-- in Mettaton's words-- 'the butchest thing alive (it's a _compliment_ , darling!)' While Alphys located the bottle of polish, Undyne flopped down on her side of the couch and got the next episode of Dragonball Z queued up.

 

The claws on Undyne's hands were no trouble. The claws on her feet, however…

 

“WAAHAHAHAHA-!”

 

Undyne flailed on the couch, flopping around like a caffeinated trout as she shrieked laughter.

 

“Um,” Alphys said, straightening her glasses. “When you s-said I was brave for t-touching your feet, I thought you w-were joking that they smelled b-bad, or something.” She'd narrowly avoided being kicked in the face. She would never have guessed that Undyne was ticklish.

 

And her feet _did_ smell bad, but that was okay. Nobody was perfect.

 

Undyne clutched her sides, wheezing. “Sorry!” she said, “I thought I could hold it in.”

 

“D-do you want to d-do it yourself?”

 

Undyne shook her head. “I'd mess it all up. I got it on lock this time.” She grabbed a throw pillow, gripping it as tightly as she could without using her claws. “Promise!”

 

Working as fast as she could, Alphys raced through painting the remaining claws while Undyne nearly chewed a hole in the throw pillow and shook with restrained giggle fits.

 

The instant she was done, Alphys let go of Undyne's foot, scooting back in case all that pent-up energy burst out and she wound up getting a freshly-pedicured foot to the snout.

 

“Whoo!” Undyne tossed the pillow aside, holding her arms and legs straight out to admire her claws. “Thanks, Al! That looks badass.”

 

Alphys capped the bottle of polish and set it aside. “You're w-welcome,” she said, enjoying the way Undyne's eyes lit up when she smiled like that. It was worth getting almost kicked just for that.

 

Sitting up, Undyne caught Alphys' hand in hers, twining their fingers together. “And see?” she said, “We match!”

 

On the TV screen, Vegeta roared a battle cry, small rocks floating off the ground.

 

“Ohhh!” Undyne drummed her heels on the coffee table. “They're finally gonna fight!”

 

Minutes of punches and kicks and shocked declarations of power levels later, Alphys noticed that Undyne was still holding her hand. A not-uncomfortable warmth spread from her cheeks down into her chest.

 

Yeah, definitely worth getting almost kicked.


	14. Chopsticks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For jewels336, depressed-couch-surfing neutral ending Undyne and Papyrus, who has found a piano.  
> Warnings: none.

The weave of the upholstery was permanently dented into Undyne’s scales by now. She didn’t care, and she didn’t lift her head from the couch cushion when Papyrus swept into the house, a large bundle tucked under one arm. A little flurry of snow followed him in on a gust of chill air.

 

Cold, miserable place. Who was she kidding? Every place was equally miserable now, without…

 

“Good afternoon, Undyne!” Papyrus leaned the bundle against the arm of the couch while he hung up his sodden coat and toed off his boots. “How was your day?”

 

Undyne grunted.

 

Papyrus moved the bundle to the middle of the living room floor, sitting down cross-legged in front of it. “That’s nice!”

 

He was blocking the TV, but whatever. She hadn’t really been watching it. Just about everything was reruns, anyway. Would be for a long time, too.

 

“Was the hot cat stand busy?”

 

Undyne wouldn’t know, since she hadn’t been there today. Papyrus probably already knew that. She grunted again, not wanting to lie to him but too tired to tell the truth and face the music for skipping out of work.

 

For a second, a flicker of either disappointment or concern passed over Papyrus’ face, but he smoothed it out into bland cheerfulness soon enough.

 

“It must have been a slow day, since Sans didn’t need you, yes?” He nodded to himself.

 

So, he did already know. Of course he did– his brother would have been in contact with him. Had he tried to see if she’d fib about going to work?

 

Nah, he wasn’t the type. Probably just trying to get her to talk. A knot of shame coiled up in her gut. Ugh, _fine._

 

“Yeah,” she croaked, using her voice for the first time all day. “Slow day.”

 

Papyrus hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I wish I’d known you had the day off, too! You could have come with me to the dump!” He unwrapped his haul, revealing a broken electric keyboard.

 

“Hmm.”

 

The rest of the evening was quiet. Sans was presumably at Grillby’s, and Papyrus was busy with his new keyboard. Once he’d gathered his supplies, he disassembled it and patiently cleaned and tested the keyboard mechanism and the contacts the led to the motherboard thingy. Clearly it had ended up in the trash for a reason. Several times, he had to get up and look for spare bits of wire to splice in or solder something mysterious back together.

 

He said nothing while he worked on the keyboard, utterly focused on what he was doing. It was actually kind of soothing. Undyne wasn’t alone, but she didn’t have to pay attention to him or be paid attention to. She could just go back to being a lump on the couch and watch him work while she zoned out.

 

It looked like something Alphys would have had fun with, even if it was too simple for her.

 

Alphys…

 

Undyne must have dozed off, because she woke to the sound of poorly-synthesized piano. Evidently Papyrus had gotten the keyboard working, and was happily pecking out an unsteady rendition of Chopsticks. Well, good for him.

 

“I solved it, see? I knew I would. Maybe you could give me a few lessons,” Papyrus said, once he noticed she was awake. “You had a piano, yes? I could hear you play sometimes while I waited outside.”

 

Undyne grunted. She didn’t even want to move. Like hell was she teaching him piano.

 

Chopsticks, as it turned out, was the only song Papyrus knew how to play. And he went right on playing it in every octave and in every instrument the keyboard had.

 

…For the next four days.

 

Undyne never knew when Chopsticks would start. Early morning was always a bad time, though thanks to Papyrus’ freakish insomnia no time of day or night was safe. She dragged herself to her shifts at the hot cat stand just to have a few hours’ peace.

 

Grief had dulled her temper considerably, but finally Undyne reached her breaking point. Papyrus’ finger slipped and hit the sour note that broke the camel’s back. 

 

“NGAAH!” In a flash, Undyne was up off the couch and across the room. In one smooth motion, she scooped the keyboard off the floor and chucked it like a rectangular spear against the far wall. It came apart in a satisfying rain of plastic and left a dent in the plaster.

 

Ahh, silence.

 

“Oh,” Papyrus said. “Was I bothering you? Sorry.”

 

Too late, Undyne realized what she’d done. “I…”

 

…Whatever. To hell with it. It was broken now. Too late. “That song was driving me crazy,” she grumbled, and curled back up on the couch.

 

Papyrus nodded. Then, wordlessly, he gathered up the pieces of the keyboard, collected his tools, and set about fixing it all over again.

 

After a day’s respite, Chopsticks returned from the depths of Hell to torture her ears once more.

 

“I swear to god, Paps…” Undyne lifted the pillow she’d buried her head under. It did little to muffle the noise, anyway. “I am begging you– play something, _anything_ else.”

 

“I don’t know anything else,” Papyrus said mildly, plonking away on repeat three hundred zillion of Chopsticks. “You’d have to teach me.”

 

That little… He’d been driving her crazy all week on _purpose!_

 

“You son of a…FINE!” Peeling herself off the couch, Undyne stomped over and sat down next to Papyrus on the floor. Moving made her suddenly aware of how stiff and sore she was, and how bad she smelled.

 

Hmm. Maybe he had a point.

 

“Okay,” she said, dialing back from a roar to a mere growl. “But we’re not wasting time on any of that Twinkle Twinkle crap. If you’re gonna mess with this thing constantly, you’re gonna at least annoy me with Liszt or Chopin, or something.”

 

Papyrus scooted over to give her more room, beaming. “Yes, sir!”


	15. Viva la revolucion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For ieinn, terrorist skeletons. One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter, eh?  
> Warnings: uh, light...terrorism? I guess?

Frisk landed hard, rolling across the pavement and sliding to a halt against a shopfront. Their backpack kept them from cracking their head against the brick wall.

 

The world was soundless save for a high-pitched ringing. Frisk rubbed at a tickle in their ear– their hand came away sticky with blood. They peered at the red smear, confused. It was hard to focus their eyes.

 

What happened? After a moment spent watching the panicked crowd scatter among the rubble that until a few seconds ago had been a metro station, Frisk’s brain supplied the answer.

 

A bomb. A bomb had gone off in the metro station.

 

A lone figure moved calmly, deliberately amongst the rubble. Vision doubled and struggling to keep their eyes open, Frisk made out combat fatigues. Sunlight filtering through the dust hanging in the air gleamed off white bone.

 

A monster. One of the Underground.

 

The skeleton monster straightened, and Frisk’s heart jumped into their throat. It had spotted them. They shut their eyes, did their best to play dead, but it was too late. They could hear quick footsteps crunching over shattered cement. Oh no oh no oh no…

 

Frisk burst into motion, lurching to their feet and running. A hand scraped against their backpack, but slipped off.

 

“Hey!”

 

Adrenaline didn’t take Frisk very far. Blood running into their eyes and dizzy, they rolled their ankle on some loose debris and dropped. The world twisted to the side, fading. The last thing they saw was the skeleton monster’s boots as it caught up with them.

 

 

 

Someone was humming tunelessly. It was a little annoying.  

 

Frisk returned to consciousness reluctantly. Their head hurt. Their _everything_ hurt, in fact. And they were cold.

 

…And someone was carrying them. A paramedic? A cop? Who had shown up to scare the bomber away?

 

Frisk blinked their eyes open, expecting bright sunlight but finding darkness. They were in a tunnel of some kind. Not a metro tunnel, but something deeper and older– they could just make out the bricks that made up the tunnel walls, irregular and mold-slick. They might have been centuries old.

 

The only illumination was a flashlight strapped to their savior’s shoulder. Even without the Delta Rune embroidered on the breast of the uniform and on the jaunty beret, the bony face was pretty hard to miss.

 

The skeleton cocked his head to look down at them. “Oh, hello! You’re awake.”

 

Intending to kick and punch and flail their way to freedom (and presumably come up with an escape plan on the way to the floor), Frisk found they were too weak and injured to manage more than some pathetic dying-fish flopping.

 

The skeleton tightened his grip to keep Frisk from falling. “Whoa there, human! I don’t think you can walk quite yet. You were leaking quite a lot, you know.”

 

Worn out by their brief struggle, Frisk went still. Had the skeleton stopped their bleeding? What was the point of attacking people and then giving them first aid? Whatever the reason, Frisk refused to feel even a little grateful to the monster who’d hurt them in the first place.

 

_-Gee, I wonder why_ ,- they signed, hands sluggish and clumsy.

 

“Probably because you were too close to the blast,” the skeleton said, matter-of-factly.

 

Frisk grunted. No duh, genius. Did he not even feel bad about what he’d done?

 

Their eyes widened in sudden panic. - _You can sign?-_

 

Maybe they _shouldn’t_ have sassed the magic-wielding terrorist. Frisk wasn’t used to strangers being able to understand what they were saying.

 

The skeleton nodded. “Well, not right this moment, because I’m holding you. But otherwise, yes!”

 

Frisk considered whether they should apologize for being rude, and if that would do them any good, but the skeleton’s attention shifted away from them to a plain steel door set in the wall of the tunnel.

 

“Password?” a disinterested voice said.

 

The skeleton snapped to attention as best he could with a child in his arms. “Swordfish!”

 

There was the clack of a heavy lock disengaging, and the door swung inward. “You don’t need to say it so loud, bro.” Another skeleton, this one shorter and broader, ushered them inside.

 

The entryway to the Underground base (and Frisk didn’t know what else this place would be) was as dilapidated and mildewed as the tunnels outside. At least there were a few fluorescent lights to see by.

 

The sentry stiffened when he caught sight of Frisk. “Papyrus, what is _that?_ ”

 

The door shut and locked again with a heavy thud.

 

“Nothing!” The skeleton—Papyrus, apparently– clutched Frisk tighter, turning away and walking briskly down the dimly-lit corridor. “Absolutely nothing, brother, so just-”

 

Frisk was jostled as the sentry skeleton grabbed Papyrus’ arm. “You brought a human here?” The sentry clutched his own skull, frantic. “What were you _thinking?_ Undyne is gonna kill you!”

 

“Pfft!” Papyrus shrugged, jostling Frisk again. Urgh, that didn’t feel good. “No she won’t!” His grin slipped and he shuffled uncertainly. “At least, I’m pretty sure she won’t. Look!” he said, “they’re hurt!”

 

“So?!”

 

“Well, I couldn’t just leave them in the street, Sans…” Papyrus looked down at Frisk with a concerned frown.

 

Sans didn’t seem impressed. “That’s exactly what you should have done, Pap.” He stared at Frisk, as though daring them to try anything funny.

 

Frisk squirmed. Despite looking a little dumpy, Sans was more intimidating than Papyrus.

 

Sans shook his head, looking back to Frisk’s captor. “You’re gonna get hurt if you keep it up with that Florence Nightingale routine.”

 

Papyrus said nothing in reply. Frisk didn’t know how someone could do puppy-dog eyes without any eyes, but he was definitely pulling it off.

 

Leaning back against the wall, Sans scrubbed one hand down his face and sighed in defeat. “What are you gonna do, hide it in our bunk? Bro, c'mon. Be rational. If Undyne finds out that you-”

 

“If I find out what?”

 

A shadow fell over the trio. Frisk heard bones rattle as the skeletons flinched.

 

A tall, wiry fish monster stood before them in the hallway. Frisk shivered as one yellow eye fell on them, slit pupil narrowing. She stiffened, and Frisk could hear the sharp intake of breath.

 

“Undyne!” Papyrus stammered. “Fancy seeing you here! Nice day, isn’t it?”

 

Sans moved subtly to put himself between this Undyne and his…brother? Had Frisk got that right? This had the added effect of shielding Frisk, which was fine. The skeletons were scary, but the fish monster felt downright dangerous.

 

Somehow, though, they doubted the sentry would be much help.

 

“You two,” Undyne hissed, yellow eye never leaving Frisk’s face, “in the situation room. Now.”

 

 

 

 

The situation room was as grubby and badly-lit as everything else Frisk has seen so far, and held only a scuffed metal table and some equally-battered folding chairs. Once they were all inside and the door locked behind them, Undyne turned on Papyrus, arms outstretched.

 

“Give it to me.”

 

Frisk whimpered as Papyrus squeezed too tight. He shook his head.

 

Sans nudged Papyrus’ side, glancing from him to Frisk. “Bro…” he warned. He glared at Frisk for a moment, as though it were their fault they were down here.

 

No one ever wanted Frisk around. Not even as a terrorist’s hostage, apparently. Real nice. Like Frisk was so excited to be a prisoner…

 

Jerk.

 

“Papyrus, we don’t have time to argue about this,” Undyne said, making a ‘gimme’ gesture with her hand. “Don’t you remember what happened to the Kiev cell when they took a human hostage?”

 

Kiev… Hadn’t that been in the news a few months ago? Hesitantly, Frisk signed, - _The Kiev Underground is gone.-_

 

“That’s right, buddy.” Sans raised a brow. “The humans bombed half the city to make sure they wiped out the cell before they could take their hostage’s soul. Took out a lot of their own civilians to do it, too. And the hostage, of course…”

 

Frisk did not like the look he was giving them.

 

Yeah, a real jerk.

 

The glint in Undyne’s eye was even worse. “That’s right,” she said. “So we need to work fast. Hand it over, Papyrus.” She reached out, claws brushing over Frisk’s sleeve.

 

“No!” Papyrus snapped, more forcefully than Frisk had expected. He took a step back. “They’re not hurting anyone. Besides,” he said, “no one saw me pick them up. Everyone had run away.”

 

For a moment, Frisk was sure Undyne would take them from her underling by force, but after a brief stare-down the fish monster sat heavily in one of the chairs, leaning her chin on her hand.

 

She blew a long sigh from her gills, looking a little less scary and a lot more tired. “Oh, Paps, what am I gonna do with you?”

 

“Sorry, commander.” Papyrus looked honestly upset, fidgeting under Undyne’s weary stare. Weird to think that the 'I’m not mad, just disappointed’ schtick worked on terrorists, too.

 

Weren’t his arms getting tired by now? Frisk wriggled in his grip. Their foot was falling asleep and they had a crick in their neck. Catching on to Frisk’s discomfort, Papyrus set them down in a chair, draping his uniform jacket around them. Frisk pulled it around themselves gratefully. It was cold and damp down here.

 

Papyrus sat down next to them, prodding at them gently. Frisk cringed and whimpered when he dug into a sore spot on their side. A warm tingling feeling started where his hand was pressed to their ribs, and Frisk realized he was healing them.

 

His brother and Undyne watched him work, visibly unhappy. “When I tell you to take care of any wounded you find,” Undyne said, “you know this _isn’t_ what I mean, right?”

 

Frisk saw Papyrus frown, but he pretended not to hear his commander’s criticism.

 

Sans muttered something in bitter tones Frisk couldn’t catch.

 

“I also notice,” Undyne went on, “that the bomb went off almost an hour late. Totally missed rush hour.” She steepled her fingers, leaning forward. “Run into some trouble on the surface?”

 

“Yes,” Papyrus said blithely. He didn’t look up from his task. Frisk’s side only ached a little, now.

 

“Papyrus.” Undyne’s voice held a warning rumble. Frisk shuddered. “You realize they outnumber us ten to one.”

 

Frisk held out their arm when Papyrus gestured for it. They watched as he closed up a cut on the back of their hand, the skin pulling back together with that same warm tingling feeling.

 

“I took out the station just like you said.”

 

Frisk frowned, thinking back to the last several weeks of news reports. A lot of the more recent attacks in the city had suffered no casualties, only property damage. Were they all Papyrus’ doing? What kind of terrorist went out of their way to avoid hurting people? Wasn’t that kind of backward?

 

Undyne’s lips curled up around her (very large and sharp-looking) yellow teeth. Sans was sitting on her eye-patch side– she twisted her head to shoot an imploring look at him.

 

“Don’t even, boss.” Sans crossed his arms and shook his head. “I begged you to keep him out of the field, didn’t I?”

 

“I’m sitting right here,” Papyrus grumbled.

 

Sans turned his attention to his brother. “And _you_ don’t listen, either! That thing,” he said, stabbing his finger in Frisk’s direction, “could have killed you. You shouldn’t even have been there when the bomb went off.”

 

Frisk squirmed as Undyne’s gaze fell on them again. She pushed away from the table and stood, too anxious or angry to sit still. “He’s right, Paps. This isn’t the first time you’ve gotten 'creative’ with my orders.” She paced, clenching and unclenching her fists.  “And now you bring a live human into the base, without a word to me or anyone else. I can’t ignore this.”

 

Was she going to try to take Frisk away again? Frisk had a feeling that Undyne had a one-way trip in mind for them that didn’t involve returning them to the surface.

 

Papyrus was watching his commander carefully, tense. That just worried Frisk more. If a fight broke out, they were pretty sure the weirdly gentle bomber wouldn’t win.

 

Undyne stopped pacing, seeming to come to a decision. “I hate to do this, Papyrus,” she said, crossing her arms, “but I’m busting you back down to security detail. I just can’t trust you topside, and you put everyone in danger today by bringing that thing down here.”

 

“Thank god,” Sans muttered, sighing in obvious relief.

 

Papyrus slumped in his chair, but nodded his assent. “Yes, commander. I understand.”

 

_-What about me?-_ Frisk signed under the tabletop, where only Papyrus could see. They didn’t feel quite so crappy now, but they were still trapped underground with the, um, Underground. And their only protector had just been demoted.

 

“Hmm…” Papyrus looked them over. “It’s going to take a little while to heal you completely. Humans are more…well, _more_ than monsters.”

 

Chin propped on his hands, Sans chuckled. “Easy, Florence…” He, at least, seemed to be in a much better mood now that his brother was grounded from the surface.

 

_-Or you could just take me home,-_ Frisk suggested. - _Or to a hospital.-_ They’d have to walk all the way to the hospital if Papyrus took them home.

 

It wasn’t like they could take the metro. No one at home would be able or inclined to give them a ride, either.

 

“What’s that?” Undyne leaned on the table, looming over Frisk. “What’s it saying? Why is it being sneaky?” She was close enough that Frisk could smell…sushi? The fluorescent light gleamed off her scales and jagged teeth.

 

Frisk edged closer to Papyrus. They weren’t really scared of him anymore. He might have bombed a metro station and taken them prisoner, but compared to Undyne he was Frisk’s new best friend.

 

“They said they wanted to go home, as any child might,” Papyrus said, curling an arm around Frisk’s shoulders. “And I imagine you’re frightening them, so they’re trying to avoid your attention.”

 

Frisk huddled deeper into their borrowed jacked. Their new best friend had the right idea, at least. Whether he could actually protect Frisk from his boss was up for debate.

 

“Tch!” Undyne sneered, but sat back down. “Anyone gonna be looking for you, kid?”

 

Frisk had seen enough spy movies to know nothing good ever happened after something like that got said. They burrowed closer to Papyrus’ side.

 

“Yeah,” Sans piped up from his side of the table, sleepy-eyed. “That’s gonna make it less scared.”

 

Papyrus frowned. “Sans has a point, commander.”

 

“I don’t care,” Undyne snapped, cracking her knuckles. “Answer the question, human.”

 

Without knowing what time it was, Frisk couldn’t be sure. School could still be in, though the school would have called home by now, surely. If anyone picked up the phone, or cared that Frisk hadn’t made it to school…

 

Frisk lowered their head, glum. _-I don’t think so.-_

 

It might have been smarter to lie, but in the moment Frisk couldn’t muster the effort to pretend anyone knew or cared where they were.

 

Both skeletons frowned. Papyrus gave them a half-hug.

 

“Wow,” Sans said. “Humans suck.”

 

Undyne wasn’t quite as sympathetic. “I take it the answer is no? Good.”

 

“Undyne!” Papyrus bristled at his boss’ lack of tact.

 

“We need time to figure out how to handle this,” Undyne said, gesturing at Frisk. “The longer it takes any other humans to miss it, the better for us.”

 

Frisk perked up, just a little. They might have been grasping at straws, but they hoped that meant Undyne planned to keep them alive.

 

On the other hand, it didn’t sound like she intended to let Frisk go, either.

 

_-No hurry, in that case,-_ Frisk signed, with a little huff of air.

 

This was officially the worst day ever. At least it wasn’t the last day ever. And they wouldn’t have to take that math test today, either, so they guessed that was something. Silver lining.

 

“Now,” Undyne said, peering suspiciously at Frisk’s hands. “What to do with it in the meantime?”

 

Sans drummed his fingers on the table– sharp ringing clicks. “Might be able to clear out a storage closet. Toss some blankets in there, or something.”

 

“Sans!”

 

“What?” Sans shrugged, waving his brother off. “Like our bunks are comfortable? The floor won’t be so bad.”

 

Sitting on the cold, damp floor of a makeshift dungeon sounded pretty bad to Frisk, but no one was asking them.

 

Papyrus tutted. “If you wouldn’t do it to a dog, you shouldn’t do it to a human. Oh!” he said, snapping his fingers with a sharp click. “I have the best idea!”

 

Undyne and Sans exchanged a wary glance. Frisk watched Papyrus, expectant. Anything would be better than getting locked up in a closet alone…

 

“Why not put them on security detail with me?” Papyrus smiled, obviously impressed with his great idea.

 

The others didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. “You want to give a captive human access to our security systems,” Undyne said, voice flat. “Did I hear that correctly? Do I need to have the Queen check you for head injuries?”

 

Papyrus shook his head. “No, thank you! My head is fine.” He leaned forward, undeterred by the dig that might have gone clean over his head. “It’s a good idea! I could use a helper, and Sans is busy guarding the entrance. The human would be supervised all the time, and they’d have something to do to wear them out and keep them docile.”

 

He reached out to ruffle Frisk’s hair. “Right? You want to help dismantle the oppressive human power structure, too, don’t you? It’ll be fun!”

 

To Frisk’s surprise, Undyne didn’t blow off Papyrus’ stupid idea right away. Instead, she hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I like the thought of a human running around the base learning about our security measures.”

 

“I really don’t like it,” Sans chimed in, giving Frisk an ugly look across the table.

 

_-Jerk,-_ Frisk signed.

 

Sans glowered. “ _You’re_ a jerk.”

 

“Human,” Undyne said, drawing Frisk’s attention. “I think you know what _I’d_ prefer to do about you, but I don’t need the silent treatment from that doofus over there.” She pointed to Papyrus. “So, I’ll leave it up to you. You wanna hang out in a cell, or work for Papyrus? Think about your answer,” she warned, snarling. “Because if you put a foot wrong, you’ll pay the price, got it?”

 

Frisk nodded without hesitation. Their feet would be kept well under control, no worries there. And if those were their only two options, it was pretty clear which one was the better deal. Security work couldn’t be that hard. They could pretend they were working at a really lousy mall, or something. A mall with no child labor laws and no arcade.

 

Besides, what exactly did they owe their fellow humans? Either they’d have something to occupy themselves with until they got rescued, or…maybe this wouldn’t turn out to be the worst day ever.

 

Sans glared at the table, arms crossed, but didn’t offer any more objections.

 

They looked up at Papyrus, who was grinning down at them as though he already knew how they’d choose.

 

_-Do I get one of those posh hats?-_

 

Papyrus grinned wider. “The poshest hat!”


	16. Not-so-Comic Papyrus (Amalgamate AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dragondraems, some body horror! The true lab was my favorite part of the game, and I enjoy all the amalgamated-skelebros AUs out there, so I thought I'd stick my oar in.  
> Warnings: body horror, obviously. ;)

Alphys crouched behind the lab bench, pulse racing and tail held out stiff behind her. They had proved difficult to track through the labs, but she’d managed to back them into a dead end. Now was where things could get hazardous. The other amalgamates had been distraught and disoriented, of course, but none of them had been so overtly hostile as these two. She still had the bruises from their last encounter.

 

Why? They were both such nice monsters separately, but amalgamated…

 

An instrument tray sailed through the air and clanged against the wall above her. She jumped, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her startled yelp.

 

“Know you’re hiding there…Alphys,” the strained voice growled. “Get out.”

 

The shifting scrape of bone on bone carried through the lab. Alphys shivered.

 

“Um, can I just t-take the opportunity t-to apologize again?” she stammered, creeping toward the corner of the bench. She didn’t want to see them, but she couldn’t cower back here forever, as much as she might wish to. “T-there’s no way that m-machine should have p-powered on. I’m sure…th-that the capacitor banks were…were empty…”

 

That sounded like she was making excuses for the accident. Damn, she was going to end up upsetting them more. How did she always do this? Was it a curse? Why did she ruin everything she touched?

 

There was a crash of glassware breaking as what sounded like several thousand gold’s worth of beakers hit the floor, swept off shelves and bench-tops in a fit of rage.

 

“Nearly _killed_ him…!”

 

Alphys flinched. “I…I know. I’m s-sorry.” First thing after she sorted this out– _if_ she could sort this out– she was going to dismantle the DT extractor for good. How it had activated didn’t matter; she shouldn’t have let anyone near it, shouldn’t have left it intact at all after its disastrous effects had come to light with the fallen monsters.

 

A harsh noise that might have been derisive laughter sawed through the air. “'Sorry,’ she says…” There was a clatter as they stumbled over something, struggling to coordinate their movements. Were they getting closer? “Safe now, safe… No thanks to…” The words trailed off into a pained whine, and then silence.

 

Enough of this. These were her friends, and they were hurt and scared. She needed to woman up, for their sake.

 

Taking a long, shaky breath, Alphys gripped the edge of the bench and slowly stood up, ready to duck if anything else was thrown her way. Nothing was. She squinted, straining to see in the dim light. “Guys?” Where were they? She turned a slow circle, watching for movement. She _really_ didn’t like not knowing where they were in the room. “P-please, I want to help.”

 

The harsh laugh sounded off to her left. “Help…can’t take more of your _help_ …Please…?”

 

Alphys found them curled up on the floor next to a ventilation hood. She tasted acidic magic in the back of her throat and had to look away.

 

…No, this was her mess, the least she could do was witness what she’d done without being sick. She forced herself to look.

 

Maybe it was the lack of goopiness that made them so uncanny to look at. Alphys couldn’t begin to guess the reason why, but unlike the other amalgamates they were completely stable. Aside from what she could only describe as…clipping issues, they looked like a larger than normal skeleton monster.

 

Well, not _normal…_

 

They glared up at her, turning their head to focus all four eye sockets on her face. “Go away…Alphys, please…?”

 

Alphys’ stomach churned as she watched them struggle to speak through two bifurcated jaws that didn’t move in the expected way. It lent an almost insectile quality to their face. All the familiar parts were there– she was pretty sure the top set of…mandibles…was Papyrus’ lower jaw, and the bottom one was Sans’. The top jaw was sharing way too many teeth, some of them running right up along the cheekbones. She could even tell which set of eye sockets was whose, but the sum of all those parts was alien and unsettling.

 

And it looked…painful. Two monsters trying to occupy the same space at the same time and not quite making it, too much matter with too little room. The seconds after the DT extractor discharged into them had been terrifying as one tried to hold the other together, and now Sans and Papyrus were trapped in an echo chamber of frantic worry, separation anxiety, and physical agony.

 

Spars and ridges erupted where bones had collided and melded together. The axial bones- skull, spine, ribcage, and pelvis– had been the most completely integrated. Rough spikes bristled like flash-frozen splashes of water at every suture and seam. Twinned femurs made the legs resemble jointed crutches, and sharp spurs that might have once been someone’s foot bones and toes flared from the tangle of their shins.

 

A near-constant creaking and grinding emanated from their shared body with every tiny movement, every breath. All four arms wrapped around their thorny ribcage, hugging themselves and each other at once. Their strange tail of surplus vertebrae curled around them in an unconscious self-soothing gesture.

 

Alphys shrugged out of her lab coat and draped it over them. It was cold down here, and aside from stray scraps of fabric caught between joints their clothing hadn’t survived the merger.

 

Also, the coat covered some of their distorted body. Alphys wasn’t squeamish, but the compulsion to decipher which parts were whose in the unnatural yours-mine-ours mish-mash of bones was making her nauseous with guilt.

 

They hissed as the coat settled over their frame, as though the fabric alone was too much against their raw bones. They plucked at a dangling sleeve with one of their hands, jaws clicking while they ordered their thoughts. “…Offending you?” they snapped, at last.

 

“N-no!” Alphys said, shaking her head emphatically. “I j-just thought you’d be c-cold. And you p-probably don’t want me…s-staring…”

 

“Then go away…!”

 

It wasn’t her imagination, Alphys felt distinctly heavier just now. Okay, she just needed to be careful and not put her foot in her mouth. They were her friends. She had to trust that they wouldn’t hurt her.

 

Because there really wasn’t anything she could do to stop them.

 

“Is t-that what both of you want?”

 

The heaviness increased, pushing down on her. She gasped and tried to back away, but she wasn’t in the best shape and her legs buckled under her like they were made of jelly. Which wasn’t so inaccurate, she supposed.

 

Her near-death bout of body insecurity was cut short when the pressure suddenly lifted. The amalgamate’s hands scrabbled at the slick linoleum floor as they pushed up into a sitting position. The top set of arms raised to clutch at their shared skull, shoulder-blades screeching over one another with the movement.

 

“Hurts…it hurts…” they whimpered, tears slipping from every eye socket. Some of the tears ran into other sockets, and they blinked and tossed their head with a frustrated sob.

 

Alphys frowned, on the verge of tears herself at their obvious suffering. “I know. I’m s-sorry.” Accident or not, she’d hurt her friends. She could only hope that she could still fix it. “But the longer w-we wait, the harder it’s g-going to be to separate you.”

 

“No!” They bristled, tail rattling as it lashed back and forth. “…Safe…safe with me…here… Don’t need…”

 

“You c-can’t stay like this.” Alphys reached out, but pulled her hand back when they growled. A thought occurred to her. “W-who…who am I t-talking to right now?”

 

They were protective of each other. Usually the shared trait was endearing, but right now it was seriously counterproductive. If she knew which one was being more resistant, maybe she could address them the right way to change their mind.

 

“…Me,” they said, crossing all four arms in a sulk.

 

Well, that wasn’t helpful. Then again, maybe _they_ were having trouble keeping track. Alphys didn’t know how amalgamation worked from the inside, what the mental give and take was like. She tried again. “Do b-both of you want to s-stay am-m-malgamated?”

 

That prompted a pause while the amalgamate squirmed. The spare bone spars that studded their body popped and clicked with the motion. “Safe…stay…” they murmured. “Happy…”

 

This was swiftly turning into a very tense round of family counseling, and Alphys was utterly unqualified. At least they hadn’t run away again. Yet. “You d-don’t look very happy.”

 

The brothers cried harder, but an irregular grouping of bone attacks shimmered into existence above them.

 

Oh. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say.

 

The attacks flickered and dissipated after a brief internal struggle. Alphys coughed to cover her shaky, relieved sigh. The amalgamate seemed to be of two minds about chasing her off, literally.

 

“Don’t want to hurt you,” they said, voice rasping and miserable. “…But we might.”

 

Alphys shook her head, and was brave enough this time to lay her hand gently on one of their arms. They hissed, but kept still. “N-no, you won’t,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

 

The brothers were quiet for a minute, save for the rattle of bones as they shivered.

 

“…Stop…stop…” They reached one hand up to wipe at their face. “Please, don’t cry…”

 

It took a second for Alphys to realize they were talking to themselves and not her. Regardless, with a final sniffle she cleared her throat, gathering herself. She could wallow in self-loathing later, but right now Sans and Papyrus needed her to be strong. They needed the Royal Scientist, not a blubbering angst-ball.

 

“D-do you want me to g-get Undyne, or the Q-queen, maybe? They c-could help us.” A hard knot of anxiety settled in Alphys’ belly at the thought of involving someone else, explaining to them just how badly she’d messed up this time. But this wasn’t about her. She was going to do the right thing no matter what the consequences were– no more cowardice.

 

Her new-found courage crumbled the instant the brothers burst into motion with a shriek of grinding bone.

 

“No!”

 

Alphys shouted as she was pinned flat on her back, her head bouncing off the floor with the force of the brothers’ tackle. “H-hey, guys, just..j-just…”

 

“Don’t…don’t want anyone!” they snarled, jaws scraping past each other, the wrongness of their face so much harder to ignore now that it was so close to hers. “…Don’t _need_ …only _me_ …”

 

They were still crying, or at least half of them was, and the tears spattered across Alphys’ face and lenses. “It’s alright,” she said, very slowly and cautiously. They were her friends, but they weren’t in their right minds and could easily harm her without meaning to. She’d really like to avoid that. “No one’s g-going to hurt you or…or think l-less of you.”

 

That assurance almost certainly wouldn’t carry over to Alphys, but at this point she figured she deserved whatever she got. She’d known how dangerous that machine was, but destroying so much hard work and brilliance…she’d lacked the strength to do what she should have.

 

At least the other amalgamates were able to enjoy a life of some kind that they wouldn’t have had otherwise. There was no upside in this case, nothing to dull the sting of her incompetence.

 

“Won’t hurt him,” the amalgamate agreed, threat glimmering in their eye sockets. They clambered awkwardly to their feet, tail flailing in an inexpert attempt to balance them. “…Won’t let _anyone_ …” They held their head again, voice rising in a high-pitched wail. “Stop…stop…”

 

Alphys scrambled back to avoid getting stepped on as the amalgamate wobbled, woozy and distracted. God, what could she _do_ for them? She had to figure out a way to get them apart, but she couldn’t even talk them down long enough to get a good look at what she was dealing with.

 

A desperate sob tore from the brothers’ throat.

 

“Better…” they whispered, leaning against the ventilation hood for support. “Safe with…why…?” A hard shudder ran through their body from head to tail-tip. They went rigid. One fist whipped out to smash the ventilation hood’s window.

 

Alphys screamed, startled by the sudden crash of breaking glass. She covered her face with her hands as shards rained down on her.

 

“Stop _crying_!” they bellowed, making Alphys flinch again. One hand grasped a wrist, as though trying to restrain themselves somehow. More wracking sobs followed, punctuated by the creak of bones as they shivered in pain and distress. “…It hurts…huuurtsss…”

 

Staring up at them, Alphys swallowed around the lump in her throat and slowly crept toward her coat, which now lay forgotten on the floor. Her phone was in one of the pockets. This was too much for her to handle alone, that much was clear. If she could just reach Undyne, or the King or Queen…

 

With four eye sockets, it took no time at all for the amalgamate to spot what she was doing. They stomped down on the coat, and Alphys heard the telltale crunch of plastic under their foot.

 

“No,” they warned, looming over her, the lights in their eye sockets wild and too bright. “Leave us…alone…!”

 

With one last pained, pleading cry, they bounded over her and staggered through the lab, disapearing back through the door. Alphys sat shaking on the floor amongst the broken glass, listening to the receding sounds of the brothers crashing through the hallways as they escaped deeper into the labs.

 

Another failed attempt. They didn’t trust her. She couldn’t calm them down, and every hour that passed made successfully separating them less and less probable.

 

They were in so much pain. They were so frightened…

 

Instead of following in their wake again, Alphys ascended to the main lab, weary and defeated. She needed to contact someone who could help her, someone who could persuade the brothers to cooperate. One of them clearly didn’t want to remain amalgamated, but neither of them seemed willing to put their faith in her.

 

Honestly, she didn’t blame them.


	17. A couple Chara shorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Have a butterscotch, sonny, and I'll tell you where I hid the bodies" - for fandomhop, a timeline in which Chara and Papyrus are friends.  
> Warnings: vague allusions to murder???
> 
> "Just world-devourin' stuff..." - For leafbladie, Chara contemplating a Pacifist Ending reset.  
> Warnings: vague allusions to genocide???

"Have a butterscotch, sonny, and I'll tell you where I hid the bodies"

 

 

“I won’t be gone but an hour or so,” Crown Prince Asriel said, clapping Papyrus on the shoulder. “Thank you again for doing this– I feel so much better knowing someone’s here if they need anything. Er, just don’t let on that you’re looking after them, would you?” He smiled. “They get so offended.”

 

Papyrus saluted. “I will under no circumstances remind Lord Chara that they are very old, Your Highness!”

 

Asriel laughed. “Excellent! I can always count on you, Papyrus.”

 

 

 

It was a fine, sunny day. The prince’s sibling was content to enjoy the fresh air in the courtard, seated on a wooden bench. Feeling cumbersome in his armor, Papyrus settled himself in the grass, leaning back against the bench. He was fond of Lord Chara, but nonetheless it didn’t feel proper to sit on the same level with them. The Royal Guard Code of Conduct was very firm on such matters, for all Crown Prince Asriel argued that the text was outdated.

 

Papyrus picked golden flowers and handed the blooms up to Lord Chara to weave into chains. Despite their advanced age, their fingers were still nimble.

 

“Did my brother ever tell you how it was that the barrier was broken?” Lord Chara said, laying a flower crown atop Papyrus’ head.

 

Papyrus looked up at them, the crown slipping down over one eye socket. “The royal family found seven human souls, didn’t they?” Everyone knew that. The day the barrier came down was a kingdom-wide holiday.

 

Lord Chara nodded. “My brother is a good secret-keeper. Even our parents don’t know the precise origin of the souls. But I’m old, and weary of secrets. Would you care to know where those seven souls came from, Sir Papyrus?” They smiled to themselves, sightless eyes twinkling. “You’re free to say ‘no.'”

 

He did want to know, though. Eagerly, Papyrus nodded. Was Lord Chara really going to tell him something that only Crown Prince Asriel knew? How exciting!

 

“Very well.” Lord Chara daintily set a second flower crown on their own head. “As I’m sure you know, I was taken in by the King and Queen when I fell into the Underground as a child.”

 

“Yes,” Papyrus said, happy that he knew this part beyond the history lessons. “His Highness talks about his childhood with you a lot!” From Asriel’s stories, they’d gotten into all kinds of scrapes together. It was a little sad to think that a human’s lifespan was so much shorter than a monster’s, but the two siblings had spent many happy years together.

 

Lord Chara hummed assent, lost in reminiscence for a moment. “The first happy days of my life, you know. From the start, I wanted to be able to repay my new family for their kindness and love. I’d have cheerfully given my own soul to free them, but of course it took more than just one.”

 

Papyrus listened attentively, waiting for the elderly human to continue.

 

“And, you know, I was fortunate enough to be able to free those who I’d come to see as my own people,” Lord Chara said, softly. “Though it took many years of patient work. My life’s work.”

 

“You found the souls, then?” Papyrus hoped he wasn’t interrupting or being rude, but this was all terribly interesting! The souls had taken decades to turn up, as everyone learned in school. How wonderful that Lord Chara had been so devoted to finding them.

 

Lord Chara nodded. “Indeed, I did. And cut them free of their vessels, too, with a knife that I kept on my person always.” They turned their blind eyes, faded from red to pink by cataracts, to Papyrus. “Do you understand?”

 

It took a moment, but realization hit Papyrus like a slap. “You…you had to kill seven humans?”

 

Suddenly, this wasn’t such a cool story anymore.

 

“You monsters are a gentle race, and we humans are so strong by comparison,” Lord Chara said, bringing one thin hand up to touch the locket around their neck. “Better for me to carry the burden than Mother or Father. It wasn’t difficult. Whenever rumor of a fallen human reached me, I set out to search for them. They were always easy enough to find. Asriel kept my secret and aided me as much as he could.”

 

Papyrus kept quiet, mulling over this new information. Not that it was a bragging point, or anything, but he and the Crown Prince were rather close, and he’d never known anything about this. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all.

 

“I don’t feel bad about it, you know. I’m glad that I did it. Not that I relished killing seven people, mind you,” Lord Chara said, reaching out to pat Papyrus’ shoulder. “I think, if those seven could see what we’ve made here on the surface, they would understand. The ends justified the means.”

 

The two of them sat in thoughtful silence until Asriel’s return.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

"Just world-devourin' stuff..."

 

 

There was nothing more to do.

 

They sat atop the hill overlooking the quiet city, watching the setting sun bathe the skyline in russet light. The breeze stirred their hair, carrying the scent of ash and oil, and flowers. Their favorite flowers.

 

It was _so_ quiet. They reclined in the soft grass, gazing up at the purple-orange clouds. Absently, they plucked one of their favorite flowers from its stem, twirling it in their fingers.

 

What to do? They were bored. They’d beaten everything, advanced as far as they could. What was left?

 

Grasping a petal between thumb and forefinger, they plucked it from the disc. Dust from their fingers left white prints on the yellow petal. They rolled the delicate thing in their hand until it was crushed and mangled and tossed it aside into the grass.

 

“Reset?” they crooned to themselves in their sing-song, borrowed voice.

 

They plucked another petal.

 

“Or not?”

 

Pluck.

 

“Yes?”

 

Pluck.

 

“No?”

 

It wasn’t like there wasn’t more of this world to see. Naturally, they could and should use it all up until there really was nothing left, until it was all as empty and quiet as this place. To do otherwise would be wasteful, would leave the experience incomplete.

 

But…

 

The rest of this world wasn’t part of the story, was it? No… No, it always came back around to their puppet, the soul, and the lucky few monsters who were pulled into their orbit, their event horizon. Everything beyond was mere set dressing– a flat backdrop against which the players lived and died and entertained. With them used up and gone, was there any point in continuing?

 

Perhaps not. Perhaps it was time to start fresh.

 

The soul stirred in them now, restless and discontented. They laid a hand on their chest, smiling faintly. They’d kept to their end of the bargain. All the world for a single soul.

 

Fair and square. Such a good deal, too. This soul had shown them so many worlds. So much life and energy for the taking, and so much silence left behind when they were done.

 

Always nice to come home for a visit, though. The old stomping grounds.

 

Yes, maybe they would start it up again. 

 

“You made your choices, you know,” they said, flicking the spent flower stem away. “It’s no good blaming me.”


	18. The beach episode is cancelled and Glad Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The beach episode is cancelled" - For goddessofundertale, Toriel, Frisk, the skelebros, Mettaton, Napstablook, Undyne, Asgore and Alphys all go to the beach. *gasps for air*  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Glad Love" - For mintkupocream, genocide human aborts the run after falling hard for Mad/Glad Dummy.  
> Warnings: none.

"The beach episode is cancelled"

 

 

“Well,” Toriel said, staring out the van window at the downpour. “This is unfortunate.”

 

“You could say it’s a wash.” Sans watched his brother, Undyne, and Frisk as they ignored the heavy rain and played on the empty beach. They were industriously building a mud castle, which was just like a sand castle, but goopier and in need of constant maintenance as it tried to melt back into a glob of wet sand.

 

Far away in the back seat, Mettaton heaved a sigh through his cooling vents. “I can’t believe I cleared off a whole day and risked sand and salt water in my mechanisms for this.”

 

“…Sorry…”

 

“Blooky, darling, you don’t control the weather. Still, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise– to think I could have been seen riding in a rental passenger van, of all things!”

 

“Well,” Sans said, peeking around the back of his seat, “since nobody else has bothered to get their driver’s license, I don’t know how else we were supposed to get everyone out here.”

 

Napstablook sighed. “I didn’t really need a seat…”

 

Mettaton cut them off. “You deserve a seat just as much as anyone else!”

 

“I…I just hover over it…”

 

Despite this, Asgore remained scrunched up as much as possible on his portion of the back seat to give the ghost room. To keep his horns from piercing the headliner, he kept his head low, staring morosely at his knees. He’d said nothing since Papyrus had stopped to pick up Frisk and Toriel, and for all his bulk his presence had been largely forgotten.

 

“Oh, d-dear,” Alphys said, looking up from her phone in time to see the final moments of the mud castle.

 

Undyne, fed up with shoring up the sloppy walls, apparently had decided that a good hip drop would compress the sand into something more manageable. The other two were too late to stop her, and in seconds all three were covered in muck from head to toe.

 

Toriel shook her head. “I don’t think we’ll be getting the cleaning deposit back on this.”

 

Curious as to what was going on outside, Asgore risked lifting his head. There was a thunk, and a rip of tearing fabric.

 

“Oh, golly! Whoops!”

 

Toriel carefully said nothing.

 

Sans shrugged. “Yep, deposit gone.” With great solemnity, he pulled two fistfuls of junk food wrappers from his pockets and scattered them over the floorboards. “Might as well crap it up, guys.”

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Glad Love"

 

 

They’d never imagined that such a vision of loveliness could exist in this wretched world. And yet! Here before them was someone who understood knives on as deep a level as they did. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, waxing poetic about the relative merits of kukris and machetes, cleavers and daggers, the human’s own knife slipped from their hand, forgotten.

 

They had better things to do than annihilate all life in the world, now.

 

 


	19. Final Boss (Papyrus Judgement Hall AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon, Papyrus as the final boss of the Genocide Run.  
> Warnings: death.

Papyrus was an excellent runner. He trained a lot. He could run for a very long time before he got tired, and he was fast.

 

The human left a trail. All Papyrus had to do was follow the dust, keep running in the opposite direction that everyone else was. Still, as fast as he could run, it took a while to catch up.

 

He’d waited too long to start moving, to chase them down. Soon it would be too late, if it wasn’t already.

 

He staggered through the doorway of the royal palace’s great hall. There, at the far end, a small figure moved, brown hair haloed by the warm light streaming in through the stained glass windows. A knife, a real one, seemed almost to grow from their hand as an extension of their arm. The blade was matte with a coating of fine powder.

 

“Wait!” Papyrus was too out of breath to yell, pushed to the end of his endurance by this long chase.

 

The figure stopped. They turned, a look of pleasant surprise flitting across their features. Gray blotches stained their sweater and skin.

 

Papyrus approached at a walk, unable to run another step now that he’d stopped. “Please,” he said, leaning against a pillar, chest heaving. “Before you go…why did you do it? Please, tell me.”

 

The human hummed a measure of a song Papyrus didn’t know. “Did you run all the way here just to ask me that?” they said, in a voice that was gentle and sweet.

 

Papyrus nodded. He’d tried and tried to figure out the answer, to solve this huge, awful puzzle, but he couldn’t. There had to be a reason! There had to be an answer. If it was too late for a solution, he at least needed a resolution.

 

“I’ve been thinking about it very hard, and I can't…” Reaching up with a shaking hand, Papyrus wiped at his eye sockets. “Maybe I’m not smart enough. But I need to know, so would you just tell me, please?”

 

Smiling a bland smile, the human hummed a little more of their song. “You want to know why I killed them all? Why I killed your brother?”

 

Legs tight and sore from miles without rest, Papyrus slid down the pillar to sit on the floor. He’d really overdone it. He stared up at the human, meeting their steady regard. Their eyes were so dead.

 

“Why did you leave me alive?”

 

“Ha,” the human said, not laughter but a flat statement. “Papyrus.” They stepped closer, crouching to sit on their heels. The tip of their knife ticked against the tile. “Did you come here to stop me?”

 

Papyrus shook his head. Undyne hadn’t been able to stand against them. Neither had the rest of the Royal Guard, or his brother, or anyone else. There was no reason to think he’d fare any better. He was good at noticing patterns.

 

“I want you to answer me,” he said, watching the knife blade twist this way and that in the human’s grip.

 

The human shook their head, tutting. “Now, that’s kind of a let-down. Here I thought you were going to make a brave last stand. You know, avenge your friends and family, et cetera… No?” They studied Papyrus’ face, blank red eyes searing straight through him. “Not feeling it, buddy?”

 

“Why?” He had to know. What if they wouldn’t tell him? He’d come all this way– this was all he wanted…

 

“Aww, don’t cry,” the human said, their smile never budging. “You really want to know that badly?”

 

Papyrus nodded. He was at a loss. If he could just make sense of it somehow, maybe that would help.

 

The human scooted closer on their knees. “I’ll tell you for a hug.” They spread their arms, waiting.

 

Not knowing what else to do, Papyrus hugged them. They were small, even smaller than Sans, and had a faint animal smell. They weren’t very good at hugging.

 

“You know why?” the human whispered, a snuffle of air tickling the side of Papyrus’ skull as they spoke.

 

“Why?” Papyrus repeated.

 

The human shifted in his arms. “Because I can,” they said.

 

Something sharp and cold slipped into Papyrus’ back, sliding between his ribs to pierce his soul. He gasped at the sudden chill, body going rigid in shock.

 

Oh. He’d…been expecting this.

 

The human’s mask-like face filled his failing vision, that flat smile and those dead eyes. “Disappointed? Ha,” they not-laughed. “A let-down for a let-down, buddy.”

 

They let him go. They walked on. They passed through the door.


	20. illuminati confirmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon, King Papyrus ending, Sans is rumored to be dead.  
> Warnings: none.

Do you want to hear something interesting? The Prime Minister is dead.

 

Not many monsters know this, but he actually fell down and died early last year. My cousin’s ex-girlfriend makes deliveries to the royal kitchens twice a month, and she heard from the porter’s boy that no one’s seen the Prime Minister outside the royal apartments since mid-winter.

 

Word is that the King ordered the servants to go on as though his brother were still alive. He doesn’t want to sow despair among the populace, you see. Morale, and all that. That’s why if you ask any of the castle staff, they’ll insist that the Prime Minister is alive. They all say he’s just very busy and hasn’t had time to make public appearances, but we know better, eh?

 

Hmm? Well, everyone can just tell! 

 

Take a look at the King, eh? You remember what he was like when he took the job. Real bubbly guy, always ready with an encouraging word. A regular ray of…whatsit. Sunshine! That’s the word I was looking for. Hell, he’d even cook big meals to share around, back when we were all still so messed up over King Asgore and that sorry business with the souls. And he wasn’t just telling the cooks to make something, no– he was down there in the kitchens himself! And talking to all of us and listening to our worries– he used to do that all the time.

 

You wanna top off my glass? Thank you. Cheers, friendo!

 

…And it’s not as though he’s cold now, of course! I don’t mean to imply that. Obviously he’s making an effort, and you have to make allowances, right? He’s young and, let’s face it, he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. I’m just saying! But it was the Prime Minister who took care of the actual government stuff, everyone knows that.

 

Anyway, with the Prime Minister gone, who’s all that hard work fall to, eh? Well, the King, naturally. He can’t appoint a new P.M. without admitting that his brother’s kicked it. It’s been a slow change, but you can see how run-down and tired the King’s gotten over the past year. If he gives you a hug now, it’s like he needs it as much as you do. Not quite as comforting, you know? When’s the last time anyone heard him laugh, eh? Even his smile looks fake these days.

 

Look at that picture from the coronation, and look at _this_ picture from today’s paper, and tell me he doesn’t look different. Right? Like he’s aged ten years. Poor guy.

 

Oh, my glass is empty again. How does that keep happening, eh? Ha!

 

Thanks. You know, you don’t say much but you’re a good sort. Cheers.

 

See, when he was just a figurehead it was no problem. But a whole year of trying to run the Underground for real, on top of having to mourn his brother in secret– well, anyone would start looking ragged, right? It’s easier to keep folks way out here in the dark about it, but back in New Home the gears are turning, if you catch my drift. Word spreads, friendo.

 

That sounded a lot more sinister than I meant it. I’m just saying, the King is showing a lot of strain these days.

 

You’ve noticed it, too, eh? Well, see? That’s exactly what I’ve been saying!

 

Prime Minister’s dead, friendo. Stone cold, dusty dead. If you were in New Home, you’d know. You wait and see if I’m wrong.


	21. 3 more short-shorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Love is for losers" - For 7th-sinner, papyton angst wherein Mettaton isn't the bad guy.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "At least you're not stuck in a flower pot" - For anon, Asriel keeps his goat-kid form after releasing the souls.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "The Underground's Next Iron Hell Chopped" - For anon, Undyne, Alphys, and the skelebros have a sleepover, and a TV gets broken.  
> Warnings: none.

"Love is for losers"

 

Love isn’t equal.

 

No relationship is equal. This is a fact of life. No matter how great the affection or how strong the bond, one person is doing more loving than the other. One is the master and the other is the slave. That’s just the way it is.

 

Mettaton knows this well, has known this for a very long time. It’s never bothered him. In fact, he’s never put much thought into it at all.

 

He’s always been on the winning side of the equation, after all.

 

Until now.

 

He’s never fallen this hard for someone before.

 

When it ends, when falling becomes landing, he knows he’s going to shatter into a million pieces.

 

He knows Papyrus will land on his feet and continue on his merry way.

 

Papyrus doesn’t need him. He’s fond of Mettaton, yes, but he doesn’t _need_ him, and it’s terrifying. How can he keep someone he has no hold over? He can’t. All he can do is wait, helpless, until Papyrus grows bored and lets him go, leaves him alone. Leaves him broken on the rocks.

 

He almost wishes it were already over, just so he doesn’t have to wait anymore.

 

“ _Your friendship is so important to me…”_

 

If this is what real love is, Mettaton hates it.

 

 

 

"At least you're not stuck in a flower pot"

 

He has hands. His own real hands with his own real claws. He has his own teeth and horns and fur and form. He’s _him_ again.

 

But he’s empty.

 

Whatever power allowed him to retain this shape instead of reverting back into the golden flower wasn’t strong enough to mend what’s truly broken. Nothing can make up for a missing soul.

 

Asriel smiles as his mother and father hug him. He pinches the inside of his elbow until tears fill his eyes so that he can cry with them. He feels no elation, no joy. He doesn’t feel sadness at the lack of feeling. There is nothing.

 

He won’t spoil the miracle by letting on what he really is. What he remains. Over the countless, recycled years he’s become a brilliant actor. He can laugh and cry and shout just like a real boy.

 

Perhaps it will be different, now that he can’t undo what he says and does. Perhaps this is his redemption– to grow up and grow old, one day. To live a normal life and die a final, normal death. As near to normal as he can get, anyway, and it’s still far more than he’s earned.

 

But he expects (not fears, he cannot fear) that the game has merely changed, not ended. He’ll grow bored as he always does. Later, when the memory of love and regret and contrition fade, he’ll start finding new ways to amuse himself. The need to keep the numbing chill inside him at bay is still there. It will grow stronger.

 

He will tear it all down, one day– their happy ending.

 

He will tear it down with his own hands.

 

 

 

"The Underground's Next Iron Hell Chopped"

 

“But why did she say she wasn’t there to make friends?” Papyrus fidgeted, nearly making Alphys smudge the polish on the tips of his digits. He didn’t have nails to paint, but she didn’t want him feeling left out of such an important bonding ritual.

 

Undyne took a swig of her tea. “It’s a competition, Paps. They’re supposed to be trying to beat each other.” She tapped her temple. “Intimidation, right? Psychological warfare.”

 

The concept wasn’t getting through. “But it’s the perfect opportunity for friend-making!” Papyrus gestured at the TV with a hand that was decorated at the digit-tips with little kitties and hearts. “The statistical liklihood of her winning is actually rather small,” he said, huffing. “Especially with that last dish she made. That spaghetti was all wrong!”

 

Undyne had to concede that the spaghetti had indeed been completely lame. Miss Hardass Chef hadn’t punched a single thing.

 

“But if she applied herself,” Papyrus went on, “she could have had at least twenty friends by now!”

 

Alphys blinked, looking up from the sakura petals she was carefully painting onto Papyrus’ digits. “T-twenty? There’s only twelve c-contestants.”

 

“The show’s crew,” Sans supplied from where he was curled up on the couch.

 

Papyrus nodded. “That’s right! She could be surrounded by friends right now if she’d stop being such a…” He blushed a bit. “Such a _butthead._ ”

 

The timing was just right to make tea spray from Undyne’s gill slits. “You know she sucks if even Paps is salty about it,” she said, laughing and coughing tea from her airways. “Ohhh! Look, a fight!”

 

With a casual flick of the wrist, she raised the remote to dial up the volume. Her excitement made her lose her grip, sending the remote straight into the screen. Glass shattered, sparks flew, and the over-dramatic cooking show was abruptly over and done with along with the TV. Every monster in the room jumped at the noise.

 

“Uh…” Undyne’s facial fins drooped, and she grinned sheepishly. “Whoopsie-doopsie?”


	22. 3 sad skelebro shorts (FINAGLC and misc.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "MURDER. DEATH. KILL." - FINAGLC alternate short. For anon, Papyrus doesn't dodge fast enough.  
> Warnings: death. 
> 
> "Debugging cheats enabled" - For anon, Flowey possession wherein Paps is used to give Sans a bad time.  
> Warnings: non-sexual consent grossness.
> 
> "Area man sits in charming B and B by himself like a fucking loser" - FINAGLC short. For anon, Sans at the inn.  
> Warnings: none.

" _MURDER. DEATH. KILL."_

 

 

The blow knocked Papyrus from his feet, unexpected. He twisted in the air as he came down, landing on his belly to keep from crushing Sans. In the instant before he struck the ground, he realized he felt lighter than he ought to.

 

Something fluttered down and tangled around his arm, snagged on the buckles of his armor. Sans’ t-shirt, stained with ketchup and a dozen other things. The familiar blue jacket landed with a soft _whuff_ in front of him, a puff of dust rising from it.

 

And that was it. The worst possible thing had happened. The absolute lowest point was reached, was surpassed, was over.

 

It was all over.

 

Flowey was right, in a way. It was nearly a relief.

 

He wouldn’t give his mind time to acknowledge that Sans was dead. It didn’t matter in the least– he had a task to complete. Pushing himself to his feet, Papyrus charged forward, silent and focused.

 

Flowey was smiling at him, was saying something. Papyrus couldn’t process the words, Flowey’s voice (how he hated that voice) reverberating through his empty skull as so much incoherent noise. He had no reply. There was no more need to speak.

 

Bullets ricocheted from armor plates, stinging with their sheer velocity. A few more wounds didn’t matter. Papyrus advanced, magic massing above him like water drawn up from a deep well, from an ocean. It took the only shape it could– a payload set to end all this, born of pain beyond reckoning, grief that was bottomless, and rage, rage, rage, rage, rage, _rage, rage, RAGE._

 

Flowey’s gloating smile wilted as self-satifaction turned to realization. Without Sans’ blue magic to hold him, he tried to withdraw into the ground, to escape. Too little, too late– Papyrus was upon him, fingers hooked into claws to sink deep into the splitting and charred stem. Planting his feet, Papyrus hauled upward with all the strength remaining to him to slow Flowey’s descent.

 

The blaster tipped downward, the light at the back of its mouth casting harsh shadows on the pair. Flowey’s stem was shredded by Papyrus’ hands– Papyrus’ fingers dislocated and broke under the strain of trying to hold a being that, even wounded, was immensely strong. Arms buried up to the elbows, knees scraping furrows in the ground, Papyrus growled exertion as he pulled. There was a crunching crack as his shoulder popped free of its socket. The pain was distant, irrelevant.

 

Papyrus stared down at that hated face, but Flowey looked past him, over his shoulder. Cold light reflected in his black eyes. Final, fatal curiosity pinned him in place as he watched Papyrus aim the blaster squarely down at both of them. Was it fear or fascination that illuminated his features? It didn’t matter.

 

It didn’t matter.

 

The blaster detonated– sound to shatter all sound, a light to wash away all color, heat and concussion to liquify the earth beneath them.

 

And then all was peace, and silence, and white.

 

 

 

"Debugging cheats enabled"

 

 

_Stop. Don’t like this anymore. Let go._

 

Being able to see through the eye sockets was handy, once Flowey got the hang of it. He could leave himself safely out of sight and still find his way around. Papyrus’ body had a few scuffs from run-ins with cavern walls and trees while he’d been forced to fly blind, so to speak. Probably looked silly from the outside, but any witnesses would just assume Papyrus was drunk. Stranger things had happened, after all.

 

_Stop. Feels wrong, feels bad._

 

He was glad he didn’t have to peek out through the skull. There was nothing important in there, and it was cramped. Papyrus’ ribcage was much more comfortable. Flowey anchored himself, ribs serving as a sturdy trellis while he wound himself tightly around Papyrus’ soul. Green brambles blocked out every hint of light.

 

He’d expected to have to use his own eyes, to guide Papyrus’ limbs in the right directions with his vines, but this little experiment was bearing fruit beyond his wildest expectations. Flowey stretched, luxuriating in the feel of real arms and legs with proper joints. He was more surefooted now, too, after some practice. It had been so long since he’d last been able to _walk._

 

It was amazing.

 

_Stop. Stop. Let go._

 

The only thing missing was feeling. Flowey was in the driver’s seat, but it was still Papyrus’ soul, not his. He was aware of it, shining at the center of the vegetable lump in his borrowed chest. Distant echoes were all he could reach, but it was so much more than he had otherwise.

 

_Let me go._

 

Golly, but Papyrus could sure whine!

 

Flowey grinned, letting his new host’s confusion and terror and hurt reverberate through the soul. He couldn’t feel it, but he could and would happily spectate. Poor, stupid, trusting Papyrus. He had no idea. This would have been more satisfying by far with a different Papyrus, a different timeline, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, now could they? Flowey would wring every scrap of satisfaction he could from this.

 

_??? Stop? Stop. Stop._

 

The front door opened when Flowey turned the handle (hands! How neat!) and he stepped inside the house.

 

Papyrus’ trash-bag brother looked up at him from the couch. “Hey, bro,” he said, with a sleepy smile. “You’re home early. What’s up?”

 

_Stop. Stop. Let go! Stop!_

 

Flowey had found a way to commandeer a monster soul today. The next theory to test out was whether a monster really could die of a broken heart. What better test subject could there be?

 

_STOP._

 

Flowey smiled broadly with both his own mouth, hidden deep within Papyrus’ chest, and his borrowed one.

 

“Sans,” he said, with Papyrus’ voice. “Do you know how much I hate you?”

 

 

 

"Area man sits in charming B and B by himself like a fucking loser"

 

 

Don’t think. Just sleep. Don’t think. Don’t think.

 

Sleep.

 

…Damn it.

 

Sans dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, scrubbing hard at the moisture gathering there. Teeth gritted, he resolutely refused to cry. Enough was enough. Blubbering like a useless lump wasn’t getting him anywhere.

 

Should he go home? But he’d already paid. And he’d already blown up at Papyrus. Not that Papyrus would do anything but welcome him back, make something for breakfast…

 

No. No, he couldn’t get pulled back into the endless circle of bullshit again. Enough.

 

Goddamn, why was he crying? Kicking at the covers in a fit of temper, Sans wrenched himself upright. Sleep wouldn’t come. The one thing he was really great at, and it was letting him down when he needed it most.

 

…Maybe if whoever was next door would fucking stop _snoring!_ What were they doing sleeping in the middle of the morning, anyway? Didn’t they have anything better to do? Lazy asshole.

 

Sans paced the length of the room, keeping his gaze trained away from the window. He wasn’t going to look for him or wait for him to walk by– that was stupid. He wouldn’t, and Sans didn’t want to see his goddamn face today even if he did. No way.

 

Just thinking about that pitiful look on his brother’s face made him so angry. That fucker knew exactly what was up, so why wouldn’t he stop fucking lying? What was going on? It was making him crazy, feeling so helpless. Watching his brother unravel in front of him, not being able to stop it.

 

…Did Papyrus really not trust him? Did he think Sans was useless?

 

Why couldn’t he…? Why couldn’t they just…?

 

Out of anger to fuel him, Sans coasted to a stop in the middle of the room. God, he just wanted this to stop. He wanted everything back to normal, whatever normal was. He wanted his family back, his home.

 

He wasn’t going to get what he wanted, was he?


	23. 2 post-pacifist shorts that start with "G"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Go forth and unleash Hell" - For turretangel, Undyne gives some very Undyne Advice to a human child.  
> Warnings: questionable advice???
> 
> "Get-A-Job" - For dragoniangirl, the bros adopt a stray cat. Papyrus isn't sure what a cat is. Sans ignores it with predictable results.  
> Warnings: none.

"Go forth and unleash Hell"

 

 

“There, there, kid,” Undyne said, awkwardly ruffling the human child’s hair. “They’re gone now.” She discreetly wiped her hand off on her jeans. Humans had a weird texture, kinda greasy.

 

The kid sniffled, rubbing at the new shiner that was slowly swelling their eye shut. “Thanks, lady,” they said, breath hitching with the effort not to cry.

 

Undyne straightened, peering off down the street in the direction the other human children had run off. “What was their problem, anyway?”

 

“I dunno,” the kid said, shrugging. “’m fat.”

 

“What?” Undyne blinked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

The kid shrugged again, as if the whole matter were self-evident.

 

Undyne really didn’t get humans. They really did want any excuse to hate something different, didn’t they? She frowned. “Well, okay, then why’d you let them smack you around like that?”

 

Now the kid blinked up at them with their one working eye. “Huh? I’m not letting them.”

 

“Well, you’re not defending yourself, either!” To illustrate, Undyne summoned a small spear, pressing it into the kid’s unsure hands.

 

The spear didn’t last long, seeming to sense the kid’s lack of conviction. It dissolved while the young human shook their head.

 

“I don’t wanna get in trouble,” they said.

 

Undyne swallowed an irritated growl. “You’re already in trouble, kid,” she said, gesturing to the black eye. “You gotta at least try to make them stop. What about all the kids weaker than you that they’ll go after? Someone’s gotta put a stop to it!”

 

The kid gave her a mutinous look, as though she were making an unfair demand on them. “How am I s'posed to do that?”

 

“Glad you asked! See,” Undyne said, kneeling down to the kid’s level, “what you gotta do is make them think twice, right? Stop their power trip.” Her eye glinted, and she grinned. “Take them head on! You’ve got the size advantage, so use it!”

 

She mimed a shoulder charge.

 

“And then you get them off balance with one of these,” she said, showing the kid how to sweep their opponent’s legs from under them. “Drop them right on the ground! Hell, don’t be afraid to get your elbows in the mix, too!” She illustrated.

 

The kid copied her movements, clumsy and hesitant but with a new light kindling in their eye.

 

Undyne smiled with all her teeth. “Yeah! Now you’re getting it, kid!”

 

 

 

"Get-A-Job"

 

 

The creature wasn’t entirely unlike a dog. Two triangular ears, a snout with whiskers, four paws with squishy toe-bean things, a tail… It wasn’t a dog, though. Papyrus wasn’t sure what it was.

 

It really seemed to like Sans, though! It had followed him all the way home!

 

“Where did it come from?” Papyrus couldn’t help but notice how Sans kept shifting away from the little creature. How odd! Clearly it was just trying to show affection.

 

Sans sidestepped an attempt by the creature to rub against his ankles. “I don’t know– the damn thing won’t leave me alone.”

 

Interesting.

 

Papyrus crouched down to dangle one of his most special bone attacks in front of the creature’s face. “See this? Care to run off with this and leave disgusting slobber and teethmarks all over it?”

 

The little creature sniffed at the bone, whiskers twitching. It turned away, disinterested.

 

Dispelling the attack, Papyrus stood. “I like it,” he announced. He looked down at the creature, which was now scrubbing itself back and forth against Sans’ ankles and making soft rumbling noises. “It may stay if it so wishes.”

 

“It doesn’t need to be in the house, bro.” Sans frowned and backed up a step. “Ugh, what’s it doing now? Quit it.”

 

Papyrus shook his head. “Sans! I’m surprised at you. It’s cold outside– not everyone is lucky enough to have no skin to get frostbitten.”

 

For the next half hour, Papyrus dug the old doggie bed and kibble dishes from his human containment cell out of storage, making sure all items were clean and ready for their tiny guest.

 

Meanwhile, Sans roamed the house, trying to get away from the weird little creature. It followed him from room to room, rubbing against his ankles and making that obnoxious mewing sound at him when it caught up to him. Even short-cuts couldn’t keep it at bay for long.

 

“It really seems to prefer you, Sans,” Papyrus said, with, he would admit, a touch of wistfulness. He liked the creature– it was like a dog, but not annoying!

 

Sans snorted. “Yeah, whoopee,” he said, hands dug into his pockets. “It’s tripped me four times already, the obnoxious little-”

 

Papyrus waved him off. “It just wants to be near you, that’s all. You should take it as a compliment!” The creature was far nicer than certain _other_ animals that kept making off with his best attacks, after all. “It likes you!”

 

“Why?” Sans snapped, glaring down at the creature, who was leaned up against his leg again. “I’ve been ignoring it since it started stalking me.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Eh, I’m gonna turn in. Keep the beast from, I dunno, eating the pet rock while I’m asleep?”

 

“Aye aye!”

 

 

 

“…And we played fetch for hours while you were wasting time napping,” Papyrus said, cheerfully detailing everything Sans had missed the previous night. The little creature really seemed to come alive late at night, which was nice because otherwise it was rather quiet and lonely for Papyrus to be awake all by himself. “It’s not very good at the retrieval part, yet, but it put forth a sterling effort!”

 

Sans cracked one eye socket open from his place on the couch. “Yeah, I could hear it galloping all over the house last night.”

 

Papyrus nodded. “Yes, it was really showing some hustle! You can tell it’s doing its best.” And it was so cute when its tail got all poofy, and when it did the odd rear-end waggling maneuver that seemed to help it pounce more effectively.

 

During the daytime, though, the creature reverted to a lazier state.

 

“Walk?” Papyrus said to it, stepping out onto the front step. “I thought you wanted to go outside.” It had been scratching at the door and making yowling noises the entire time Papyrus had been looking for the collar and leash. Now that they were ready to go, it had changed its mind…?

 

The creature peered out through the open door, tail twitching. With a huge yawn, it turned and wandered back into the house as far as the leash would allow, whereupon it stretched out on the floor and went to sleep.

 

Papyrus sighed. “It’s just as idle as you are, Sans,” he said, kneeling down to unclip the leash. He gave it a light scritch behind the ears. It made a soft _yow_ sound, but didn’t wake.

 

“Please,” Sans said, still curled up on the couch. “I do more than sleep fifteen hours a day like that thing.” He sat up just enough to glare at the creature over the arm of the couch. “Get a job!”

 

That woke it up. With a little trilling sound, it rose and trotted over to Sans.

 

“I wasn’t calling you,” Sans grumbled, as the creature hopped up onto the couch and snuggled up against Sans’ chest. “Ugh, get lost!” He made no move to push it away, though, simply glaring down at it while it settled in. Soon enough, it was rumbling contentedly.

 

Papyrus sighed. “Well, I guess it’s your turn to spend some time with it, anyway.”

 

It was clear who the favorite was. Unfair…

 


	24. A couple shorts set in restaurants?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He can't compete with unlimited breadsticks" - For caitielou-askew, the gang goes to an Italian restaurant, and Papyrus has his mind blown.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "It's people, I tell you!" - For scienceisfood, the bros eat BBQ for the first time, which is full of bones...?  
> Warnings: none.

"He can't compete with unlimited breadsticks"

 

 

When Papyrus still hadn’t returned to the table after a solid five minutes, Frisk volunteered to go find him. They passed through the busy restaurant, careful not to trip up the waitstaff, but they couldn’t see him anywhere inside.

 

Stepping from the warm light and pleasant chatter inside to the cool night outside, Frisk found Papyrus sitting on the front steps. The bottle of wine that had gone missing from the table was clutched loosely in his hand, and he gazed up at the stars with a pensive look on his face.

 

Frisk approached him, sitting down on the cement steps and studying him for a moment. Finally, they tapped his shoulder to get his attention.

 

_-It was just spaghetti_ ,- they signed.

 

Most of Papyrus’ plate was still sitting untouched back on the table. He’d taken one bite, his face had gone totally blank, and then without further warning he’d quietly excused himself and left. The only one there who hadn’t seemed at all concerned was Sans.

 

Papyrus heaved a weary sigh. “So what have _I_ been making all this time?”

 

Frisk wasn’t sure how to answer that. _-Spaghetti…?-_ they signed, hesitant.

 

“What else have I been wrong about?” Papyrus took a swig of wine. He sighed again. “I’ve been living a lie.”

 

_-We can order you something else.-_ Frisk was aware that they were not well equipped to deal with an existential crisis. All they’d wanted was some fried calamari rings to soothe the sting of their last math quiz. They weren’t ready for this hot mess.

 

Papyrus held out the wine bottle, offering.

 

Frisk sighed. - _I’m ten.-_

 

“Oh, right,” Papyrus said, pulling the bottle back. “Sorry.”

 

_-Do you want me to get Sans?-_ Someone should at least take the wine back inside before Papyrus drank it all.

 

Papyrus shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. “No, no. I’ll manage. Just needed some fresh air, that’s all!” Seeming to shake off his dark mood, he smiled.

 

He took Frisk’s hand and let them lead him back inside.

 

Frisk was definitely not suggesting going out for Italian again any time soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It's people, I tell you!"

 

 

The ribs were pretty good (if a little messy) until the first bone was uncovered. Sans and Papyrus stared down at their plates, appetites suddenly and forcefully gone.

 

“I didn’t think the name was literal,” Papyrus said, poking at an exposed length of rib bone in horrified fascination.

 

Sans nodded. “Right, like how spotted dick isn’t actually-”

 

“Yes. Like that.”

 

“How do you suppose the bones got in there?” Sans was looking very green in the face, figuratively speaking. He could still feel cooked bone scraping against his teeth.

 

Papyrus shook his head. “I’d rather not think about it.” But of course, now he was thinking about it. “You don’t think whatever this was…ate a skeleton, do you?” What a horrible thought.

 

“Oh, man,” Sans said, shuddering. “I really hope not.” Especially considering that the bones were still intact, which would mean that their owner was still alive somehow. “Maybe they’re conjured?” That would be a lot less creepy. Either way, Sans covered the ribs up with some napkins to hide them from view.

 

The humans running this joint had a _lot_ of explaining to do.

 

“I ought to march back there and give that cook a piece of my mind,” Papyrus snapped, crossing his arms in a huff and definitely not shaking at all. “The Great Papyrus is no cannibal!”

 

The possibility that the humans in the kitchen might take a piece of something other than his mind dawned on both brothers more or less simultaneously.

 

“Or…” Sans said, sliding out of the booth with studied nonchalance. Act natural. “Or, we could just get the hell out of here.” Before either of them ended up on the menu…

 

Papyrus nodded. “That works, too.” 

 

Scooping Sans up under one arm, he sprinted from the restaurant.


	25. They fight crime! (buddy cop AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon, who wanted a Sans and Papyrus buddy cop AU. Watch out, bad guys! Ol' Johnny Law is coming for you.  
> Warnings: none.

Sans’ new partner fidgeted in the driver’s seat, restless. He sighed for the fifth time in a minute and readjusted the squad car’s mirrors. Again.

 

“Doin’ okay, buddy?” Sans asked, glancing over at the rookie. All that fussing was making it hard to nap.

 

The newly-minted Officer Papyrus crossed his arms, staring out the windshield. “Yes,” he said, with just a trace of petulance. “It’s just…this isn’t at all what I expected. Aren’t we supposed to be patrolling?”

 

Sans waved him off. “The radio’s on if anyone needs us.” He gestured at the squawk-box. “This is a real quiet neighborhood,” he said, reclining his seat a little more and adjusting his hat to shade his eye sockets. “No sense wasting gas.”

 

“But studies have shown,” Papyrus said, in a tone Sans was sure he’d start to dread pretty quickly, “that increased police visibility is a deterrent to crime.”

 

“Are we invisible right now? No?” Sans shrugged. “Relax, rookie. Tonight is just to get your feet wet. Look, I’ll tell you what,” he said, grinning. “In a few hours the bars will be closing– we can snag a couple drunk drivers or something, huh? Just for you.” Until then, they could chill out and catch a few z’s. Or rather, Sans could catch a few z’s, and his overzealous partner could pay attention to the radio and wake him up on the slim chance that anything happened.

 

Papyrus frowned, but nodded. “Very well,” he said, leaning back in his seat in a childish sulk.

 

Sans was just drifting off when a plastic rustling stirred him awake. He sighed. “What are you doing now?”

 

Somewhere in the accumulated detritus, Papyrus had found a couple grocery bags and was daintily shoving trash into them. “This car is an embarrassment,” he said, picking up a fossilized hot-wing bone between thumb and forefinger. “Not to mention a significant health and safety hazard. I can’t work in these conditions, and neither should you.”

 

“Oh, look who’s fancy,” Sans said, snatching a half-empty bag of pretzels from Papyrus’ hand. “I’ll have you know I’m saving these for a special occasion.” He ate a pretzel, just to make a point. It was incredibly stale, but it was the principle of the thing. He was the senior officer, here. Papyrus had been so excited about the squad car that Sans’ hadn’t had the heart to tell him he couldn’t drive it, but that didn’t mean the rookie was calling the shots.

 

He didn’t appreciate being kept awake during this pointless night shift, and he really didn’t like being nagged.

 

Papyrus made a face. “It would serve you right if you got sick,” he said, and went back to his neat-freaking.

 

Sans watched him for a little while, noting that he was sorting the garbage for some reason. Weird guy. “What do you have two bags for, anyway?”

 

Pausing, Papyrus blinked at him. “Recycling,” he said, shaking the bag that was full of empty soda cans and bottles.

 

“Oh,” Sans said, biting his metaphorical tongue on any further comment. Recycling. Good grief.

 

With a patch of the floorboards now visible, Papyrus got more adventurous, reaching under his seat to pull more trash into the open. He gagged, muttering something that could be considered a curse, if one were a 92-year-old Sunday school teacher.

 

A discolored styrofoam drink cup was held in front of Sans’ face for inspection. It smelled like something that should have visible stink lines rising from it in a comical fashion.

 

“What,” Papyrus snapped, “is this, and how long has it been in here? I thought something smelled, but I assumed it was you.”

 

Sans took the cup in his hands. “First of all, rude.” He peeled up the edge of the lid to peek inside, venting out more of the foul stench as he did so. “Phew! Damn, that’s ripe. I’d say it was an Orange Bang about three weeks ago.”

 

Gingerly, Papyrus leaned over to glance inside the cup. He recoiled immediately, and Sans could have sworn he saw the rookie cross himself.

 

“That’s not orange,” Papyrus said. “I doubt if that color has ever been seen before, in fact.”

 

Sans chuckled. “Along with half the shit growing in this cup.” Rolling his window down, he tossed the cup outside.

 

“You can’t do that!” Papyrus barked, sitting bolt upright. “That’s littering!”

 

“Hey,” Sans said, shrugging. “You didn’t want it in the car, so it’s not in the car anymore. Relax.”

 

“You’re setting a terrible example for the citizenry,” Papyrus said, pointing accusingly at the cup laying with its unspeakable contents splattered over the sidewalk. “Every litter bit hurts– haven’t you seen the posters?”

 

Oh, this partnership was not going to work. “You’re real fixated on garbage, you know that?” Sans rolled his eyes. “You ever think maybe you missed your calling? I hear the waste disposal company’s hiring.”

 

Papyrus was about to retort, but movement at the end of the street caught his attention. “What is that?”

 

“What’s what?” Sans squinted into the darkness. The streetlights didn’t light the street so much as they cast narrow spots of illumination that wrecked the night vision of anyone outside, while providing deeper shadows for stray animals and imagined ne'er-do-wells to hide in.

 

“That person there,” Papyrus said, pointing at the dark shape hunched beside a car. “Who unlocks their door all crouched down like that?”

 

Someone who was picking the lock. Well, shit. “Maybe they locked their keys inside,” Sans offered, knowing this was a weak theory. He’d seen the car’s ‘owner’ walk up and down this street a couple times in the last hour and hadn’t thought anything of it. Not that he’d been thinking of anything but getting some shut-eye since he came on duty…

 

The door popped open soon enough, and no, a key didn’t seem to be involved in any way. And who started their car by futzing around under the steering column?

 

Sigh.

 

Making a quick note of the license plate and the make and model of the car, Sans grabbed the radio to call it in. He got as far as their current location and a brief rundown of the vehicle when the thief got the engine started.

 

Faster than Sans could say 'what the hell are you doing,’ Papyrus had the squad car in gear, the roof lit, and the sirens blaring. This, naturally, spooked the thief, who pulled out ahead of them with a squeal of tires.

 

“What the hell are you doing?!” Sans bellowed, figuring it was better to ask late than never.

 

Papyrus gunned it after the stolen car, a manic grin lighting up his face. “We are pursuing the suspect! Eight-five percent of stolen vehicles are recovered, and I’d die of embarrassment if I let that statistic fall.”

 

The stolen car took a sudden right turn, and Papyrus barreled after it, skidding through the turn. Sans was reminded suddenly and forcefully that he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.

 

“Oof!” His head bounced off the window and he scrabbled to grab onto the door.

 

“You should really buckle up!” Papyrus chirped helpfully.

 

Sans was going to hit him. Possibly by being bodily thrown into him during the next hard turn.

 

Their high-speed chase ended (thank god) when the thief suddenly stopped to abandon his ill-gotten car. Fumbling, Sans managed to click his seatbeat just in time to avoid sailing through the windshield when Papyrus slammed on the brakes.

 

The thief dove from the car, disappearing over a fence. Papyrus was after him, conscientiously looking both ways before sprinting across the street.

 

“Come on!” he called, vaulting over the fence after the thief.

 

Sans fought with his stupid seatbelt, collarbones smarting where it had dug in as he tried to unfasten it. “Hey! Don’t run off by yourself, you-” The seatbelt unbuckled. There! He was free.

 

The fence was taller than it looked from the squad car, and it took a minute of awkward scrambling to climb over it. Sans landed hard on the other side, stumbling on ankles and knees that weren’t used to acrobatic nonsense. Flashlight held aloft, he looked around for any sign of the thief or his new partner. Where was he? Dammit, how had that guy managed to get into trouble on his first night? He wouldn’t throw a soda can in the regular trash, but he’d chase a suspect in the dark _by himself._

 

The beam of his flashlight caught leaves rustling in a clump of shrubbery. That was either a scary-huge opossum, or… With his free hand hovering over his baton, Sans approached the scuffle. He really hoped Papyrus was winning because truth be told, Sans couldn’t really take a punch.

 

The hand-cuffed car thief thrashed, stirring the branches of the shrub he must have been tackled into. From his perch on the thief’s back, Papyrus squinted into the light of Sans’ flashlight, still grinning like mad. The knot of apprehension in Sans’ throat loosened.

 

“There you are!” Papyrus casually shifted his grip to stop the thief’s flailing. Arms really weren’t meant to bend that way. “I was wondering if something happened to you. Are you okay?” he asked, brow quirking in concern. “You look awful, no offense.”

 

“Fine,” Sans wheezed, lowering the flashlight and bracing his hands on his knees. Was he really this winded after running, what, a few hundred feet? He was in worse shape than he’d thought. “Just dandy. And you really shouldn’t have run off on your own like that.” He glared, though the effect was probably ruined by how shaky and out of breath he was. He gestured at the thief. “What if he’d been armed or something?”

 

Papyrus laughed. “Oh, he was, now that you mention it!” Groping in the grass for a moment, he produced a knife. “Don’t know what he thought this would do to a fellow without any flesh, but we all seem to be having an off night.”

 

Unbelievable. As Sans’ near-panic abated, his anger slowly caught up with him. The germaphobic fussing was one thing, but tearing off on a high-speed chase through a residential area and then zipping off after a suspect with no backup was quite another. Sans was going to have words with Captain Undyne once they were back at the precinct. He couldn’t work with some reckless hot dog. He was in this job for the pension and the stability, not to go chasing petty crooks through dark alleys and shit.

 

The ride back to the precinct was not quiet. This wasn’t surprising, since the rookie seemed incapable of not lecturing the nearest available target at the slightest provocation. And the car thief had done a lot of provoking, what with stealing a car, and all.

 

What was surprising was the fact that said car thief was reduced to tears after the first couple miles. Sans thought the whole 'you can do better’ spiel was kinda corny, but it apparently hit a nerve. A heart-to-heart ensued, and when they’d arrived and turned the thief over for booking, the man gave Papyrus as much of a hug as he could with his hands cuffed behind his back (more of an awkward lean than anything), and a teary “Thanks, man. I won’t let you down.”

 

“I know you won’t, sir!” Papyrus chirped, waving as the thief was led off. Smiling brightly, he turned to Sans, who by this point was more than a little dumbstruck. “There’s time to hit the gym before we go off shift, don’t you think? If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to keep up!”

 

Thoughts of Captain Undyne and formal complaints and reassignments squirmed at the back of Sans’ mind, but he found himself nodding. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging, “I guess I’ve kinda let myself go, huh?”

 

Papyrus clapped him a little too hard on the shoulder. “Nothing we can’t turn around!”

 

They made their way down the hallway—suddenly, Papyrus froze. “Oh, no!”

 

Sans staggered to a halt, narrowly avoiding walking into the rookie’s back. “What?”

 

“That disgusting cup! I forgot to clean it up off the sidewalk!” Papyrus stared down at his hands, frowning like he’d single-handedly poisoned the entire town.

 

Really? Well, but of course Papyrus would worry about something like that, wouldn’t he? “It’s fine, bro,” Sans said, gently shoving Papyrus back into motion. “I’ll go take care of it later.”


	26. Some actual drabbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Practice made perfect" - For pancreas5, Flowey and Papyrus back in the good ol' timelines.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Drama, suffering, no happy ending, Fox only, final destination!" - For anon, an Undertale story with more drama and suffering, and no happy ending!   
> Warnings: CRAWLING IN MY SKIN~
> 
> "Backseat driver" - For projectsnt, Flowey hitching a ride with murder-run Frisk.  
> Warnings: none.

"Practice made perfect"

 

 

“Thanks, Flowey,” Papyrus said, with a final sniffle. He wiped his tears dry with the back of his glove. “How is it that you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better?”

 

_Because he’s said the words so many times. So many times. He’s so good at making all his friends happy, even though they’ll never stay that way._

 

Flowey smiled his practiced smile. There was never any real emotion behind the expression, but the angles of his lips and the crease of his eyelids felt more tacked-on than ever. “Oh,” he said, a hollow desperation trembling through his stem. He disguised the shudder as a shrug. “It’s just a gift, I suppose!”

 

 

 

"Drama, suffering, no happy ending, Fox only, final destination!"

 

 

Papyrus walked into the house, still hopping mad from his fight with Sans. It was quiet. Ugh! Sans was probably napping again, that lazy bones!

But Sans wasn’t napping! A chip in the kitchen counter betrayed where Papyrus’ brother had tripped and hit his head. In his fragile state, a pile of dust on the floor was all the remained of poor, sad, misunderstood, sad Sans.

Papyrus fell to his knees. “Noooo!” he cried, tearing his shirt dramatically in his incalculable grief. “It should have been me! Why, cruel fate?!”

And, grabbing a knife from the counter, he made to run himself through. And then he did run himself through, and died as well.

And then Chara swooced right in and killed everyone else with the same knife, and nobody lived.

 

 

 

"Backseat driver"

 

 

“No, no, no,” Flowey snapped, vines squeezing and relaxing against Frisk’s arm. “Who taught you how to hold a knife? Don’t just swing it around like a caveman with a sharp rock!”

 

Frisk rolled their eyes, shaking dust off their sweater. “This is _my_ run, I’ll kill them how I want.”

 

“Well, you’re doing it all wrong!”

 

Not for the first or last time, Frisk flailed their arm in an effort to dislodge the flower. Flowey wouldn’t budge.

 

Flowey shook his head, dizzy. “If you’re trying to make me throw up, I got some bad news for you on the stomach-having front.” He sneered. “Fine, if you want to look like an idiot I won’t stop you.”

 

“You _can’t_ stop me.”

 

Flowey wilted slightly under Frisk’s flat stare. “Whatever,” he said, rustling his petals in irritation. “Keep going, then. First turn on the left, there’s at least five more monsters for you to embarrass yourself in front of with your total lack of finesse.”


	27. 2 soriel shorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The amusing hats went entirely to waste" - For anon, Sans and Toriel discussing Papyrus. Not really soriel, but hey, it's got both of them!  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Get you a man that can comb ya back hair" - For ady-mary, fluffy soriel. Exactly what it says!  
> Warnings: none.

"The amusing hats went entirely to waste"

 

 

 

“…And, I don’t know,” Sans said, sighing. “We went to all this trouble with the decorations and everything, and we made all this food…”

 

Toriel shifted on the stone floor, stretching one leg out to keep her foot from going to sleep. “It sounds like it was a lovely party.”

 

There was a quiet _click_ from the other side of the door, perhaps Sans leaning back against the stone. “It was. I mean, _I_ thought we did a pretty good job. Someone could have at least swung by for a few minutes,” he said, bitterness edging his tone. “Jackasses.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Toriel said, frowning. No one ought to be alone on their birthday, and Sans’ brother sounded very sweet. “Well, I suppose it was their loss.”

 

“You got that right. See if I’m buying rounds at Grillby’s anytime soon.”

 

Sans didn’t often sound angry, but the townsfolks’ slight must have gotten under his…well, not under his skin, but it was clearly affecting him deeply.

 

He sighed again, harsher. “I know he can come on a little strong, but they could just be cool about it and give him a chance.”

 

“I’m sure they’d love him if they did so,” Toriel said, recalling her own well-loved children. The world would be such a kinder place with fewer assumptions in it… Well, she didn’t want to dwell on that subject too long. She was trying to help her friend, not wallow in her own troubles. “How did he take it?”

 

“He was looking forward to this for weeks, and he was so sure it was gonna go over well…”

 

Toriel winced. “I suppose he must be rather upset, in that case.”

 

There was a rustle of heavy fabric as Sans’ shrugged. “He always puts on a brave face, but he’s pretty down about it. He’s not dumb,” Sans said, and Toriel wondered how often he felt the need to say that. “People are nice enough to him, I guess, but he knows when he’s just being, y'know…put up with.”

 

“Unfortunately, that sort of thing doesn’t end with childhood,” Toriel said, wanting to do something about it but at a loss as to what. Part of her wanted to march into Snowdin and demand an explanation for their poor behavior, but of course she couldn’t do that.

 

“I don’t know how to cheer him up, either,” Sans went on, anger smoothing out into his normal poorly-disguised melancholy. “I mean, I’ve always been okay by myself, and I’ve got you, at least. But Papyrus needs people, and all he’s got to really talk to is me.”

 

Toriel nodded, though Sans couldn’t see the gesture. “I’m sure he appreciates having you for a brother. You seem very close.”

 

Sans chuckled. “Yeah, well, we’ve always had to be. It’s always kind of been us against the world.” He sounded tired. “I was hoping, when we came here, that it wouldn’t have to stay that way. If he could make just one decent friend, I wouldn’t worry so much.”

 

“He will,” Toriel said, speaking from long (and long-ago) experience as a mother. “Someone like that won’t go ignored forever.”

 

“I hope you’re right,” Sans said, and Toriel heard him climb to his feet. “It sucks to see him working so hard and getting nowhere, y'know?”

 

Toriel stood, too, dusting off her robes with one paw. “I’ll be busy with chores tomorrow, but would you do me the favor of stopping by the door anyway, Sans? At your convenience, of course.”

 

“Sure, I guess.” There was a hint of curiosity coloring Sans’ voice despite his glum mood. “What for?”

 

“You’ll see,” Toriel said, smiling slightly.

 

There was something she could do, now that she thought about it. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

 

 

 

Toriel was canning snails when Sans found the birthday cake on his side of the door the next day. It had been a long time since she’d had occasion to bake a cake, and she’d thoroughly enjoyed piping the little blue icing bones onto it and writing ‘Happy Belated Birthday Papyrus’ in looping cursive.

 

She wouldn’t have been able to see Sans’ face even if she’d been able to stay and wait for him, but she smiled now in her overly-warm kitchen, looking forward to hearing about his brother’s reaction tomorrow. She certainly hoped he liked it. He seemed like such a nice boy, and everyone should feel special on their birthday.

 

Well, or two days after their birthday… It was the thought that counted.

 

 

 

"Get you a man that can comb ya back hair"

 

 

“This is really quite embarrassing,” Toriel said, wincing as Sans hit another tangle. “I hate for it to get this bad, but it’s just so hard to reach.” She sighed. “One of those things about living alone that you don’t really consider…”

 

Sans shrugged, pausing to clean out the comb. “Eh, don’t stress over it, T. You can’t help being so fluffy.”

 

Sighing again, Toriel fidgeted with the sleeves of her slanket. “Well, I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than help me comb mats out of my back hair, of all things.” Angel above, but it sounded even more unappealing out loud.

 

“Nah,” Sans said, tossing another wadded up ball of fluff onto the pile. “Not really. Besides, I’m the one who offered, right?”

 

“That is true,” Toriel said, watching the pile of shed hair grow. Ugh, she couldn’t let it get like this again. How disgusting. She let out a surprised bleat when Sans hit a snag that was too thick for the comb.

 

“Sorry, sorry!” Sans gave her a little pat. “Might have to cut that one out, huh? You know,” he said, rummaging through the vanity drawer for a pair of shears, “if you want, I could give you a cool fade while I’m back here.”

 

Toriel didn’t know what a fade was– some hip young person’s thing that she was hopelessly out of touch with, but she chuckled at the idea regardless. “Oh, my goodness,” she said, grinning, “I don’t know if I trust a bald hairdresser.”

 

“Geez, T, way to _blow-out_ a guy’s hopes and dreams!” Sans said, gasping in mock offense. “Hanging out with you was the _highlight_ of my day, and then you go and say a _cutting_ thing like that.”

 

Careful not to jostle Sans while he had a sharp pair of shears near her skin, Toriel laughed, one paw pressed demurely to her muzzle. “I do apologize, Sans,” she said. “That was _shear_ inconsideration on my part.”

 

“That’s better,” Sans said, setting the shears aside. “No more moping, huh? You’re talking to a guy who doesn’t own a single un-stained shirt. You don’t need to worry about impressing me, and you don’t need to feel weird about asking for help with this stuff. I’m happy to do it.” He reached his spindly arms around her in a hug. “Okay?”

 

Toriel smiled. “Okay.”


	28. Hand wash with like colors (FINAGLC short)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon, something from FINAGLC Sans' perspective.  
> Warnings: none.

Papyrus’ coffee-stained gloves were still on the kitchen counter. Sans walked past them a few times, gaze lingering on them until a thought occurred to him.

 

He could wash them. Right? It was kind of his fault that they were messed up, and doing laundry would be…helpful?

 

Yeah, he’d just keep telling himself that. He picked up the gloves, though, and took them to the basement.

 

The washer was half-full. Sheets and towels. Sans tossed the gloves in the basin and tried to recall what came next. Papyrus always took care of laundry– the baskets were heavy and hauling them up and down the basement stairs was risking a fall that Sans couldn’t weather. He could probably have come up with a way to help out more, but it had never seemed like an issue.

 

Yeah. It felt like an issue now.

 

…Soap? Yeah, he needed some soap. Sans scanned the shelf above the washer, looking for the right jug. Or maybe it was in a box? He was probably over-complicating this. It was just laundry. Grabbing the first box within reach, Sans opened it up. It smelled soapy. Ergo, it must be laundry soap.

 

Shaking a generous amount of soap flakes into the basin, Sans shut the lid and fiddled with the dials until the machine kicked on, the sound of running water filling the room. Ha! Success. One less thing Papyrus had to worry about, even if it was just a stupid chore. His brother got hung up on stuff like that, and any stress Sans could save him right now, he would.

 

And he had to say, at the risk of tooting his own trombone, that he had this laundry thing in the bag. Not exactly quantum physics, right?

 

He was still simmering in a tentative cloud of pride in his accomplishment when the washing machine started puking up suds.

 

Sans stared at the quickly-mounting bubbles, wondering if this was normal washing machine behavior. Soap made suds, obviously.

 

…This was likely too many suds. Shit.

 

Fuck, what was he supposed to do about all this? The bubbles just kept right on coming, forcing Sans to step back to avoid getting his slippers wet. “Uhhhhh,” he said, watching the fluffy mass slowly take over the basement floor.

 

His first instinct was to yell for Papyrus, but he caught himself just as the first syllable was forming in his mouth. He was trying to help his brother out, not give him even more of a mess to clean up.

 

“Come on,” he muttered to himself, frustration growing by the second. “You can outsmart a simple machine, for god’s sake.”

 

The washing machine, for its part, seemed to have found its true calling in life, and that was to spew soap bubbles nonstop at an alarming rate until the end of time. Or at least until the end of the wash cycle, by which time everything in the basement would be a soapy mess.

 

At a loss, Sans kicked off his slippers and waded into the lavender-scented froth. “Give me a fucking break, will ya?” he pleaded with the washing machine. “I bet you don’t pull this shit with him.”

 

He didn’t know what else to do, so he found himself trying to scoop up armfuls of suds to pile them on top of the washing machine. For a lot of reasons, that idea wasn’t working. All he was doing was making himself look like an idiot.

 

“Sans?”

 

Sans turned to see Papyrus coming down the stairs. Oh, super. He really needed a witness to this travesty.

 

“Oh, hey, bro,” he said, as casually as he could while being steadily engulfed by the Bubble Apocalypse. “Washing machine’s acting up, but I got it under control.”

 

Shaking his head, Papyrus crossed the sudsy floor and opened the lid. The washing machine shut off at once, ending the tide of bubbles.

 

Oh. “I was just about to do that,” Sans said, feeling like a dunce. Not that he’d actually known how to shut it off…

 

Papyrus picked up the box of soap flakes, the ghost of a smile flitting over his face. “Sans, this isn’t laundry detergent.”

 

Come to think of it, Sans hadn’t bothered to read the label before he’d poured the stuff in. He shuffled in the foam, annoyed at himself. “Yeah, well, it’s dark down here.”

 

Yeah, great work. Try to help, make a bigger mess. Story of his life lately.

 

Reaching into the basin, Papyrus pulled up a sodden bed sheet. It was streaked with pink, but hadn’t it been white before?

 

…Oh. _Red_ gloves. Of course, the dye would bleed and turn everything pink. God damn.

 

Sans sighed, blowing some of the bubbles clinging to his face into the air. “Sorry, bro,” he said, sagging in on himself. “I thought I’d help out, but I fucked it all up.” He couldn’t find it in him to pun. God, he couldn’t even get something as simple as laundry right. No wonder Papyrus was a nervous wreck, living with such an unreliable loser.

 

To his shock, Papyrus laughed. Just a little, and it was faint, but it was an actual laugh. “Nothing wrong with pink, I suppose,” he said, dropping the sheet back into the basin. “It’s not a big deal, Sans. Thank you for starting the laundry– I’d forgotten all about it.”

 

Sans had expected a lecture for being careless, or even some directionless fussing. His brother’s mild acceptance of his blunder was throwing him for a loop. The feeling worsened when Papyrus shut the lid and let the washing machine go back to happily barfing up suds.

 

“Uh, bro…?” Sans had no idea what to make of this. Some kind of incredibly chill pod person had replaced his brother. Or, more likely, he was simply too tired and stressed to waste energy freaking out over something as petty as this. “Shouldn’t we…I dunno, fix it?”

 

Papyrus shrugged. “It’s only soap. We can mop it up later.”

 

They stood in the rising tide of bubbles, taking in the ridiculous sight.

 

“It does smell nice down here now,” Papyrus said, with a brief chuckle. That and his thin-but-genuine smile made the entire misadventure worth it ten times over.

 

Sans smiled back. He might be a useless for anything else, but at least he was good for a laugh.


	29. Who does depression hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Vice" - For blurryvoid, self-destructive skelebro.  
> Warnings: alcohol abuse, disordered eating, hypergymnasia
> 
> "Now You Gotta Smoke The Whole Pack" - For scarpathcat, 'if it's a game then I'll just respawn, and if it's not...' Sans is unimpressed.  
> Warnings: the usual genocide-run shit.
> 
> "Permabanned" - For anon, who outlined thusly: "A story in which Alyphs is actually really honest about what happened in the true lab but has opposed to everyone being super cool about it everyone hates her. Except for Mettaton, Sans, and Papyrus. Undyne is the most disgusted with her but over time learns that what happened was a complete accident and she was essentially just bullying Alyphs all this time. She then goes and tries to make it up to Alyphs but Alyphs is really bitter about the whole thing."  
> Personally, I don't know if "bitter" is the proper descriptor. ;)  
> Warnings: aftermath of bullying/character assassination?

"Vice"

 

 

The brothers have a rule. Neither of them is consciously aware of it but it goes something like this: “I won’t ask, if you don’t.”

 

They follow this rule above all others.

 

It’s not a unique arrangement. Rather, it’s a corollary of a basic tenet of monster etiquette. A good, polite, selfless monster keeps their chin up and keeps smiling. They don’t break down where anyone else can see. They don’t show any signs of fatigue, of the struggle of keeping their head above water.

 

Keep smiling. Stay cheerful. Be strong, for the sake of everyone around you. Don’t make yourself a burden, a stone to drag your loved ones down, too.

 

Sans drinks too much. It’s not an uncommon crutch, especially in a small, quiet town lacking in other distractions. Addiction is hardly worth mentioning. For the sake of propriety and his brother, he does his best to be discreet about it, to follow a set of internal rules. He doesn’t do it in front of Papyrus, he doesn’t do it before five in the afternoon or after the bar closes.

 

During the off-limits hours, he waits for five o'clock to roll around again.

 

Papyrus trains. On its face, this doesn’t seem like a problem, but poison lies in the dose. He runs until his legs can’t hold him. He goes through the katas Undyne teaches him long into the night. The list of foods he’ll allow himself to eat grows more restrictive and more precisely calculated. Food equals magic, after all, and his needs to be just right. In the interest of not worrying anyone, his brother first and foremost, he has his own set of rules that he adheres to. He only skips meals if Sans is at Grillby’s, he does most of his training when everyone is asleep.

 

At the dinner table, he keeps up a steady stream of chatter while he pushes spaghetti around on his plate. It’s one of the remaining safe foods, but there’s always too much.

 

Papyrus suspects his brother notices, despite his precautions. That’s bad. It’s bad to worry your family. In the back of his mind, he’s sure that Sans wouldn’t spend so much time at Grillby’s if he could just get a handle on himself. But he can’t. In a cave system that feels smaller every year, in a life that’s starting to feel directionless and stifling, he needs control over something. Even if it’s only his own body.

 

Sans watches his brother deftly avoid eating the meal he himself cooked. He thinks longingly of the dim lights of the bar and fire whiskey burning away his failures, if only for a few hours. In a body that always feels like crap, in a place that’s a circular trap he can’t break out of, he needs oblivion. He suspects his brother has caught on– he’s not stupid. He wonders if Papyrus would dial it back if he could just man up and deal with his own bullshit. He knows he can’t.

 

They can’t break their rule, but they find sneaky ways around it. One week, Sans might casually mention to Undyne that Papyrus is overtraining. At the next session, he catches hell for being irresponsible, and Undyne tries to impress on him that his performance will suffer if he continues to push too hard.

 

All that sticks in Papyrus’ mind is that he can’t let himself slip. He needs to work even harder.

 

Some nights, Papyrus goes to the bar as soon as it opens to ask Grillby, as a personal favor to him, to please keep an eye on his brother and cut him off when he’s gone too far. That evening, Grillby does his best to abide by the request, telling Sans politely but firmly when he’s has enough and bringing him a glass of water.

 

The bartender can’t hover over one patron all night, and Sans has made sure to make friends with all the regulars. He isn’t drinking water.

 

They argue and bicker about unrelated things. They aim jokes at one another with hidden barbs. They admit worry in vague, unguarded bursts. They smile, and laugh, and talk about their day, about inconsequential matters.

 

And so it goes.

 

They try to be good, selfless monsters.

 

They don’t ask. They don’t give anything away. To know anything for sure is anathema. They can’t speak of these things, if they want to do right by each other. Better to keep smiling, and follow the rules.

 

 

 

"Now You Gotta Smoke The Whole Pack"

 

 

It kept nagging at the human– that loser skeleton’s refusal to fight back. They’d put it out of mind as best they could. No point in feeling bad about it when they were the only real thing down here.

 

He’d been more disappointed than scared, there at the end. He hadn’t acted like a boss was supposed to act. He hadn’t said the sort of thing bosses were supposed to say when he died. It was all backwards, like _they_ were the bad guy, or something.

 

Well, that was just ridiculous. They weren’t really doing any harm.

 

They _weren’t._

 

Were they?

 

They gave up on fighting monsters, electing to run instead, dodging their magic. The fights were too easy, anyway. No fun. They didn’t need to be any stronger than they were already if they could one-shot everything, so there was no point in grinding.

 

And it was just grinding, wasn’t it? They weren’t really…

 

Nothing down here was real.

 

“You can do better…” What was that supposed to mean, anyway? Dungeons were meant to be cleared, monsters were meant to be killed by the hero. That was how this worked.

 

That _was_ how this worked, right? What else could it be?

 

As they walked onward, the glow of the magma pools far below held their attention. What quicker way to settle their doubts than to go for a swim? Toes hanging over the edge, they looked down into the light and heat. Would it hurt? Monster attacks hurt, and the fall had hurt… Then again, they might pass out from the heat and the fumes before they ever hit the surface, and once that happened they’d burn up or melt or whatever in a second.

 

After that, either they’d…come back, or they wouldn’t. If they did, that would settle everything, and they could keep going on as they had been with no more stupid guilt gnawing on them. If not, then that would be it, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t exist anymore to care.

 

That’d been the point of coming up here to start with, right?

 

They stepped out into empty space.

 

A hand grabbed theirs, and with a twisting lurch they were standing in the middle of the rocky island, nowhere near the edge. The loser skeleton’s even loser-ier brother stared them down. He kept his grip on their hand, bones cold and ungentle.

 

“What’s this bullshit?” Sans measured them with his gaze, looking profoundly unimpressed. “If you wanted to off yourself, you could have had the courtesy to do it before you murdered my brother and half of my hometown. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

 

The human tugged, but Sans wouldn’t let go.

 

“Oh, no,” Sans said, left eye socket burning bright. He wasn’t strong, but his fingertips were sharp and dug in painfully. “You started this, and you’re gonna finish it. And then,” he said, bearing down harder and making tears spring to the human’s eyes, “you’re gonna reset everything back to the way it was and never bother us again. Got it, you gross little flesh-bag?”

 

They nodded. So much for that idea.

 

 

 

"Permabanned"

 

 

“She says, um…” Papyrus glanced off to the side, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “That…”

 

Mettaton snorted. “She needs you to stop trying to contact her,” he said, the lights of his graphic display blinking dispassionately.

 

“Oh?” Undyne glanced suspiciously between the pair blocking the door to the labs. “Why doesn’t she say so herself?”

 

“Darling, do you honestly think that she wants to see you after all the dreadful things you’ve said?”

 

Undyne didn’t know how Mettaton managed to look down his nose at her when he was both shorter than she was and lacking a nose in this form. Any nose he did show, she’d gladly break. “Damn it, I’m _trying_ to apologize!”

 

Papyrus coughed, breaking the staring match. “I appreciate that,” he said, “and I’m sure she does, too, but nevertheless…” God, he looked miserable. Totally out of his element.

 

Undyne wondered if Alphys had sent him out with Mettaton to keep the peace somehow. That was mean of her, if so.

 

She’d be lying if she said that him being here wasn’t pissing her off, too. He was _her_ friend first. Why had he stuck by Alphys when the shit hit the fan, instead of her?

 

…Because he’d made the right call, she’d realized. Because he’d led with understanding instead of anger.

 

Anger got Undyne into trouble. This time, though… This time, she’d really done it.

 

“It’s far too late for apologies.” Mettaton rolled forward slightly, crowding Undyne farther from the door. Her temper flared, but his armor plating could withstand as much as she could dish out.

 

Maybe _he’d_ been the one sent out to keep the peace. Maybe Alphys didn’t trust her not to keep her temper in check. The thought only served to make her more angry.

 

“Even our own reputations didn’t survive all this unscathed, simply by association,” Mettaton said, gears mashing somewhere inside him in private rage. “But you’ve made her a virtual pariah, _knowing_ what it might do to her. You’ve done enough damage.”

 

Fighting down tears borne of guilt and frustration, Undyne recalled the panic that had swept her when Alphys disappeared from public view, when her online presence vanished. But she hadn’t known… It wasn’t her fault! It was a misunderstanding!

 

Stepping forward, Papyrus laid a hand on her arm. “It’s hot out here,” he said, stating the obvious. “Maybe you should go back to Waterfall…?” He was giving her an escape route.

 

Undyne’s gaze slid to the ruddy ground. “How do I fix it?” The meekness in her own words caught her by surprise.

 

“There is no fixing this,” Mettaton snapped, incredulous. “You can’t turn a mob against someone and then simply-”

 

“I wasn’t talking to you!” Undyne’s voice cracked. Her limbs shook under the weight of her unhappiness. That wasn’t what had happened! It was just… In the heat of the moment… _Anyone_ would have looked at the Amalgamates and… If Alphys had explained herself better in the first place…!

 

Again, Papyrus drew her from her frantic thoughts, squeezing her arm. He looked less unsure now, face set in a compassionate frown. “Maybe give her some space,” he said, nodding as though this would set everything right again, “for now.”

 

Mettaton crossed his arms. “Forever.”

 

She was going to deck that fucking robot, even if it broke her hand.

 

Papyrus’ phone rang, its cheerful jingle disrupting the tense atmosphere. The skeleton excused himself a few steps away and answered.

 

“Sans, really, we’ve got it under control.” He paused. Undyne strained to listen for his brother’s voice, perhaps Alphys’ in the background, but Mettaton kept her from moving any closer. “No, you don’t need to come out here. She’s just leaving.” He made eye contact with her, questioning.

 

Alphys was really this upset that she was here? Undyne sagged, resolve eroded by more than the blistering heat. She’d spent days working out what to say, psyching herself up to come here, to make her case.

 

To beg forgiveness.

 

She couldn’t even say she was sorry?

 

“Fine,” she said, defeated. “Fine. I’m going.”


	30. Crack kills and courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Co-starring Tim Curry As The Normal Literal Vacuum" - For aaromax, these guys playing Clue. (They're not to blame for the vacuum, tho.)  
> Warnings: crack of 2002-era caliber.
> 
> "Courage" - For flyingfishflops, something about one of the other souls.  
> Warnings: off-screen violence, mild gore.

"Co-starring Tim Curry As The Normal Literal Vacuum"

 

 

“Does anyone else have any candlesticks?” Papyrus asked, looking over his cards.

 

Rodimus sighed. “That’s the wrong game. For the last time– we’re playing Clue. And stop telling us what cards you have.” He struggled to hold his own cards, delicately pinching them between his fingertips. He had no idea how he was going to move his little Miss Scarlet token around on the board without breaking it. He’d forgotten how small humans were.

 

“Ohhh, right.” Papyrus held his cards a little closer. “Sorry, Mr…er, Captain Sexy Robot.”

 

“Yes, well,” Rodimus said, puffing up a bit. “No harm done, small humanoid.” He liked it when people remembered the ‘Captain’ bit. And the rest of the epithet wasn’t too shabby, either. If someone was going to forget his name, there were worse things to be called.

 

He squinted, struggling to read the tiny print of the instructions. “Whoever’s to the left of me goes next, which would be you,” he said, gesturing to the larger humanoid.

 

Ganondorf chucked the die across the board with a huff of annoyance. “This is asinine.” He didn’t bother to move his token. “It was Mrs. Peacock in the dining room with the dagger.”

 

“It’s the first round, human,” Rodimus snapped. “You can’t have guessed it already.”

 

“Counter it, then,” Ganondorf said, resting his chin on one hand. “Between the Stalfos giving his hand away and you dropping your cards multiple times it was easy enough to work out.”

 

Papyrus shrugged and set his cards aside. “Well, that was a quick game!” He busied himself with braiding a lock of Ganondorf’s hair while Rodimus carefully reshuffled the cards. “Best two out of three? I have a feeling I’m actually very good at this game.”

 

“Well, at least you’re not cheating, unlike some people.” Rodimus dealt the cards again, glaring in Ganondorf’s direction. “Do it right this time.”

 

Meanwhile, the actual, literally completely normal vacuum cleaner that served as their fourth player sat motionless on its side of the board.

 

“That thing,” Papyrus said, scooting closer to the large Gerudo seated beside him, “is really starting to give me the heebie-jeebies. Does anyone remember getting it out of the closet?”

 

The others shook their heads, gazes drawn to the vacuum. It was perfectly still, as inanimate objects tend to be. Something about it radiated dark foreboding.

 

Rodimus shuffled a bit closer to his companions as well. “One of us should put it away. I mean, it’s not like it can play, even.”

 

No one volunteered.

 

 

 

"Courage"

 

 

He couldn’t go back. It was so cowardly, what he was doing. He was a craven coward of the worst sort.

 

He couldn’t go back. It was too late for that now, far too late. If he turned back now, he’d be hanged. That was the only fate for a deserter.

 

Tired as he was, he had to press on, keep moving. They would be searching for him, tracking him. Under cover of darkness, he moved farther up the mountainside. He was slower now that he’d set the horse free (he’d be hanged as a deserter _and_ a horse thief, oh god), and he was hungry and tired.

 

His hope lay in the superstition surrounding the mountain keeping his pursuers away. Perhaps they’d take him for dead and give up their search. They might assume that whatever evil dwelled on the mountain would take care of him and return to their war and its senseless slaughter.

 

That man’s face would never leave his mind, never. He would never kill another living soul for as long as he lived, not ever. He couldn’t. Enemy or not, war or not, murder was murder. Thou shalt not kill. He’d sinned once, but no more.

 

The bandana he’d taken from the soldier he’d killed chafed against his neck, and he reached up to loosen the knot. As a makeshift bandage, it covered the nearly-fatal cut from the man’s (boy’s– his enemy had been no older than him, had probably lied his way into the army like he had) bayonet well enough. The wound felt hot, though. Infection. He rubbed at his throat absently, the rough leather of his gloves breaking the scabs and making the blood flow afresh. The stink of pus reached his nostrils. No wonder it was such an effort to keep moving. He needed rest, and food. He needed a doctor. He’d have none of these things any time soon.

 

Maybe he really would die on this mountain.

 

He forced himself to keep climbing regardless. If he was going to die, he’d die on his own terms. He wouldn’t be their example to keep the infantry scared and compliant. If that meant crawling into a cave to die of a fever, then that was just how it would have to be.

 

He wasn’t going back. To hell with all of them.


	31. 2 errorsans shorts (gen, errorberry)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Everything Must Go" - For anon, something with Errorsans.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Carl Sagan's Big Stupid Cosmos" - For anon, Errorberry. :V  
> Warnings: none.

"Everything Must Go"

 

 

How far could it possibly go? Reality after reality, each splitting and branching and blending into one another. Other hims, distorted and stretched a thousand million times, a fun-house mirror reflection doubling back on itself forever.

 

And himself, the farthest out, the one pushed and twisted so far that something important _broke_. But at least he could see from here. His unique perspective led him to make a decision.

 

It all had to go.

 

What was the point of all these superfluous worlds? All these hims? Nothing! It was all just noise cluttering up the signal, himself included.

 

Maybe once it was all gone, once it was quiet again, he’d finally come in clear. Or stop existing. Either option was better than this.

 

Anything would be better than living like this.

 

 

 

"Carl Sagan's Big Stupid Cosmos"

 

 

Sans hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder, looking around carefully. He wasn’t under any illusions that he was safe. This other version of himself was unstable in every possible way (not least of which physical– bits and pieces of him couldn’t be bothered to stay where they were supposed to be at any given moment, which must have been dreadfully uncomfortable). If he were taken by surprise things could go very badly.

 

Someone had to reach out to the poor thing, regardless. A Sans was a Sans, and Sans had very high self-esteem. He was certain that all the other Sanses would agree and lend a hand if they were here. He’d never seen them, but it was safe to assume that they were all as great as he was. It just stood to reason!

 

The split-apart version of himself lashed out immediately. Sans was ready for it and dodged nimbly out of the way of the attack.

 

“I know, I know,” he said, indulgently. “You’re cranky and you take it out on me, I understand. Maybe you wouldn’t be so cranky if you had something to do?”

 

Face flickering, his other self glared daggers at him. “I have something to do. Something important, which you keep interrupting.”

 

Sans laughed, glancing off to the side because _wow_ that whole twitching in and out of reality thing made his head hurt to look at. “Yeah, I was thinking something a little less…destroy-the-worldy…?” He pulled his surprise present from his bag, holding the book up triumphantly. “Ta-da! Something to read!”

 

“What.” His other self stared at the book, left eye socket drifting slowly away from his face before snapping back into place.

 

“If I know anything about me, it’s that I love this book, so I know you’ll love it, too.” Sans grinned. “No Sans can resist Carl Sagan, so don’t even try to front like you’re not going to accept it.”

 

A very short while later Sans mused, as he was running for his life, that maybe _some_ Sanses could resist Carl Sagan.


	32. Vigil (King Papyrus ending)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tiny-yue, who wanted something from the King Papyrus neutral ending (which may be my favorite? <3)  
> Warnings: none.

MK stopped at the statue of Captain Undyne, as he always did when he visited the palace. One of the heroes of the Underground, her larger-than-life bronze face smiled down at him, the toothy grin echoing across fifteen years. Like the statues of the former King and Queen, Dr. Alphys and her human-exterminator robot Mettaton, there was a spot on Undyne’s foot that was shiny. Passersby liked to rub their “patron” hero for luck. MK observed the custom, too, raising one clawed foot to polish the single patch of like-new bronze.

 

If there was any time he needed Captain Undyne’s favor, it was now.

 

The palace grounds were quiet. It was late in the day, and while the King and the Thing of All Monsters had already reached their decision, a public ceremony couldn’t be held until tomorrow. There was a ritual he had to complete first, and as important as it was it didn’t make for an interesting spectacle.

 

Tonight MK began his Vigil.

 

The King and the Prime Minister were waiting for him at the far end of the Great Hall. The hour was too late for any but the most urgent matters of court, and they must have dismissed their attendants. They were alone, dwarfed against the massive pillars that supported the high, vaulted ceiling and the great stone icon of the Angel that stood behind them. A floral-patterned cushion lay on the floor near the icon, strangely out of place in the grandeur of the hall. A trio of folded cloths– white, red, and black– that the Prime Minister held in his arms drew MK’s eye.

 

“There he is, right on time,” Prime Minister Sans said, grinning. “You remember to wash behind your ears, kid?”

 

MK nodded, mouth going dry. He’d scrubbed his scales until they shone, and he’d made sure the simple clothing he wore was clean. The floor tiles were cool on his feet as he stepped forward. He tried to tame the apprehensive shivers that ran from the top of his crest to the tip of his tail, to no avail. This was the start of the rest of his life, and the King’s gaze was on him.

 

Haloed in the golden light streaming through the stained-glass windows, King Papyrus fairly glowed. He smiled, waving MK closer. “No need to be nervous,” he said, “It’s only us, after all.”

 

True, the three of them had the Great Hall to themselves, but these two were the monsters MK would least like to make a fool of himself in front of. The king, especially. Never mind that they’d come from the same hometown, or that MK had spent much of his childhood in the palace as a ward of the Crown– hero worship was a habit he’d never managed to outgrow. King Papyrus had been an outsize personality even before the Thing of All Monsters had appointed him as King Asgore’s successor. Time and experience had made him awesome by both the word’s modern and more archaic definitions.

 

“Not nervous,” MK said, past the lump in his throat. “Your Majesty,” he added hastily. “Just excited.” Halting before the two rulers, he waited, determined not to fidget. The brothers regarded him with faint amusement.

 

King Papyrus laughed, the sound bouncing through the cavernous hall. “Keen as ever, excellent!” He laid a hand on MK’s shoulder. “You know, I don’t know if you remember,” he said, “but on my coronation day I was certain I was going to be sick right here in front of everyone.”

 

Prime Minister Sans chuckled. “Yeah, you were looking pretty green, bro.”

 

“Really?” MK blinked, taken aback. He’d been a child then, but he couldn’t recall King Papyrus being anything other than amazingly cool during the coronation ceremony.

 

The king nodded. “Yes, I was a mess! But I got through it,” he said, giving MK’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “And you’ll get through this, and tomorrow. I know you’re going to do a fantastic job, so don’t worry.”

 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” MK said, because he’d never disagree with the king, even if he wasn’t so sure of his qualifications. This had always been his life’s dream, but now that it was really happening he was having misgivings.

 

The prime minister sidled closer to his brother, holding the folded cloths in easy reach. “No one ever feels ready, kid. You just gotta take our word for it that you are.”

 

MK nodded, because he wasn’t about to disagree with the king’s brother, either.

 

“On that note,” King Papyrus said, “are you ready to begin?”

 

MK wasn’t at all convinced that he was ready, but the question only had one answer. “Yeah,” he said, voice cracking a little. “I’m ready.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” The king clapped MK on the back, and then his bearing shifted, subtly, in a more official direction.

 

“As Captain of the Royal Guard,” he said, taking the first cloth from Prime Minister Sans, a mantle of white silk, “you will embody the Guard’s highest ideals. Tonight, you must meditate on the seven virtues. Let them guide you in thought, word, and deed, and let them be felt through your leadership.” His voice slipped into an easy cadence, though he’d surely only recited these words once before, fifteen years ago when Undyne’s replacement had held their vigil.

 

That monster had been old, and like so many others they’d lost precious things to the human. MK thought he could see traces of sadness left over from the memorial around the king’s eye sockets and mouth.    

 

Draping the mantle around MK’s shoulders, the king fastened the clasp at the collar. It had clearly been recently sewn on, possibly by either the king himself or the prime minister. The thoughtful addition kept him from having to hunch his narrow shoulders to keep the cloth from sliding off. It was a small thing, but MK felt his eyes grow a little misty.

 

A heavier mantle of red velvet was next. “Tonight, you must commit yourself to a life of noble deeds and sacrifice. Virtuous thought without virtuous action is meaningless,” King Papyrus said, fastening the second clasp. This one had been sewn on crooked, and the king fussed with it for a second to get the fabric to lay right.

 

The prime minister coughed in a way that was a lot like stifled laughter. “Pretty sure you did that one,” he said, aiming a teasing smirk at his brother and looking much younger, if only for a moment.

 

“And I did a bang-up job, too,” the king huffed. “I happen to like the way it drapes now, don’t you?” He gave MK an expectant look.

 

Was he supposed to talk during this? It seemed disrespectful, but then again the king had asked him a question. “Um, sure.”

 

“Ha!” Years of hardship and stress melted away, and King Papyrus smiled triumphantly. “You see?”

 

Prime Minister Sans shrugged. “Guess I’m outvoted, then.” When the king turned away from him, he gave MK an approving wink.

 

“Right…” The king rubbed his chin, scowling thoughtfully. “Where were we?”

 

“The spooky death cloak,” the prime minister said, helpfully.

 

The king struck his fist against his palm. “Right! Spooky death…” he trailed off, frowning. “Sans, please try to take this seriously, would you?”

 

“I am being serious, bro. This is my serious face,” the prime minister said, gesturing at his cheeky grin. He held out the folded black square that was the final mantle. “What’s it called, then?”

 

King Papyrus stamped his foot. “Well, I can’t be expected to remember that! I had enough on my hands memorizing this blasted speech again!”

 

“Bro, you cut a good five minutes off– you skipped the whole section that lists off the virtues and everything.” Prime Minister Sans tossed the bundle of fabric from hand to hand. “And how do you know I’m wrong, then, huh?”

 

MK shifted from foot to foot, but waited patiently. The bickering actually calmed his nerves some. It had been a familiar sound in the palace halls growing up. These two had had a hand in raising him after his folks…well… He certainly hadn’t been the only child to become a ward of the Crown after so many monsters ran afoul of the human all those years ago.

 

And now he would stand with them and serve them as an adult, and as a leader in his own right. It felt strange.

The king glared at his brother, but there was no real sharpness in his expression. “I’m sure it’s not called the ‘spooky death cloak.’ Now,” he said, brushing imaginary dirt from the sleeves of his doublet, “can we please get on with it?”

 

“By all means,” the prime minister said, holding out the spooky death cloak. “Let’s get back to putting the poor kid to sleep.”

 

King Papyrus cleared his figurative throat and took the folded square, shaking it out to reveal a mantle of black canvas. “This one is the most important,” he said, laying the rough fabric over the other two on MK’s shoulders. It was heavy. “You begin your vigil now, but it never truly ends. You must safeguard those under your command, and protect the Underground and all who dwell within from harm. Your life will be spent in defense of the weak, and in the service of myself and my house, to the end of your days.” He paused, looking MK in the eyes directly. “Do you pledge your life so?”

 

It wasn’t a rote call and response. The king was waiting for an honest answer. The lights that burned in his eye sockets were friendly and open, but they seemed to pierce through all defenses, straight to the soul. King Papyrus smiled, as though satisfied with what he saw.

 

“Absolutely.” In this, MK had never felt a trace of hesitation. To defend his king and keep the monsters of the Underground safe was his honor and privilege.

 

“Wonderful!” the king said, beaming. “Good, that’s that out of the way.” He gestured to the large stone Delta Rune situated behind them. “Here, in the shadow of the Angel,” he pronounced, “you will keep your vigil until morning.”

 

“The floor’s pretty hard,” the prime minister said, as the three of them approached the stone icon, “so we put a couch cushion down for you to kneel on.”

 

Oh, so that’s what the floral cushion was about.

 

King Papyrus stopped MK from kneeling with a raised hand. “I know you’re excited to get started, and you have a lot of introspection ahead of you that I’m sure you’re looking forward to,” he said, while his brother snickered. “But since there won’t be time tomorrow I just wanted to say… Oh, to hell with it!”

 

MK’s feet nearly left the ground as the king swept him up in a hug. The scent of spices enveloped him, homey and warm.

 

“I’m so proud of you,” the king said, squeezing him tightly. He pulled away, hands braced on MK’s shoulders to let him regain his balance. “We both are.”

 

“Yeah, kid.” The prime minister gave him a mellow smile. “You done good.”

 

Smile wavering with some old and undefined emotion, King Papyrus used the cuff of his sleeve to dab at his eye sockets. “I’m sure she’d be happy to know the Guard is in good…er, claws. You’re the right choice.”

 

Chest tight and blinking away sudden tears, MK nodded.

 

“Bro, come on,” Prime Minister Sans said, the lights in his eye sockets twinkling. “Don’t cry in front of the kid.”

 

“I’m _not crying!_ ” The king shot a glare at his brother, sniffling. “It’s just a mote of dust in my eye.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Giving MK a conspiratorial look, the prime minister plucked at the king’s sleeve. “It’s getting late– let’s make ourselves scarce so he can get to business, huh?” He winked again. “Don’t fall asleep, kid.”

 

The king turned his attention back to MK. “It’s not the end of the world if you doze off, of course. Have a good night, and we’ll see you in the morning.” He pressed his teeth to MK’s forehead briefly, and the pair departed, walking side by side.

 

As he knelt down on the gaudy-but-comfortable couch cushion where he would spend the night, MK could hear the brothers exchanging whispers on their way back down the length of the hall.

 

“'Don’t fall asleep?'” the king hissed. “That’s rich, coming from you, you lazybones.”

 

“Oh, yeah? And since when is 'dozing off’ no big deal?” the prime minister retorted.

 

Smiling to himself, MK settled in a comfortable position, letting the receding voices put him at ease. He had a lot to think about over the next ten hours. But the butterflies in his stomach were gone, his limbs were steady, and the weight of the cloth wrapped around his shoulders felt less like a burden than a lingering, reassuring hug.

 

This was the right choice. He was going to make them proud.


	33. where wolf? there wolf. (2 Gasterblaster AU shorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "That time of the month" - For anon, GB AU. Sans recovering in bed post-transformation.   
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "What is it, boy?" - For anon, who wanted Sans or Papyrus GB transformation. Sans had his turn, so let's give cool friend a try.  
> Warnings: none.

"That time of the month"

 

 

 

Sans curled up as best he could on his bed, whimpering softly. Ticking from the mattress bulged from the slashes he’d left in it with knife-sharp talons. The rest of the bedroom wasn’t much better off, but it was such a mess generally that the extra damage and mayhem blended in to the untrained eye.

 

Still holding Sans’ jacket (saving it had been his brother’s principle concern when the transformation started, hours early), Papyrus frowned. The shift wasn’t easy to witness, and it hurt even more than it looked, but more worrying was how unpredictable it was getting. Having a schedule made this little…condition a lot more bearable. Just one of those things– like an unpleasant chore that simply had to be done. Orderliness implied that the situation was under control.

 

It was becoming pretty apparent that the situation was not, in fact, under control.

 

Also, they were going through an awful lot of furniture.

 

“Well, there’s no getting you through the door like that,” Papyrus said, opening the closet door just long enough to toss the jacket inside before slamming it shut on the impending tidal wave of junk. “I’ll just bring dinner up here, shall I?” He forced peppiness into his voice. They could discuss what the worsening disruption of their routine meant once Sans was himself again. For now, they just needed to get through the next couple days.

 

Sans’ tail whupped against the floor. He tucked his legs in farther, trying to fit his larger body on the ruined mattress. He wasn’t having much success.

 

“It’ll be like a picnic. We can pretend this atrocious carpet is grass.” It was turning vaguely greenish, at least. Papyrus shuddered.

 

He’d prefer to clean up a bit before he tried to eat in here, but Sans didn’t respond well to the vacuum when he was in this shape. Something about the noise.

 

Gazing up at him with eye sockets that were extra mournful, Sans whined, a high, fluting note.

 

“I know, you don’t feel well.” Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Papyrus let Sans rest his massive head in his lap. He scratched gently along the ridges that jutted from his brother’s skull and rubbed the bifurcated jaw where the soreness was always worst.

 

Sans’ chest rose and fell like a forge bellows in an enormous sigh. He grumbled, the hissing rumble rising to a sad yodel.

 

Papyrus sighed as well, leaning back against Sans’ bulk. “Yes, I can see that. I’ll try to look for another mattress, but for the time being you’ll just have to mind your claws and not tear it up worse.”

 

Whining, Sans nudged his muzzle against Papyrus’ arm. Papyrus went back to scratching. Sans’ tail thudded against the floor, content but still quite pitiful. Honestly, Papyrus thought he was laying it on a little thick this time.

 

“I’m going to have to start dinner some time, Sans,” Papyrus said after a few minutes. “Unless you’d prefer kibble.”

 

With an affronted snort, Sans shoved Papyrus off the mattress.

 

"What is it, boy?"

 

 

The thing about having vision based on movement was that it was pretty easy to get tripped up. Doggo walked a set route from his home to his sentry station and back. Generally, this was fine. Today, a stationary obstacle lay in his path, and he walked right bang into it.

 

“Hhhhhhhhhhhh!”

 

With a surprised yelp, Doggo scrambled back. His foot smarted. Whatever he’d stepped on had been jagged and hard. The thing moved, and even with the low contrast of bone on snow the large, lithe, quadrupedal shape hit the part of Doggo’s brain labeled Dangerous Things To Run Away From dead center. His hands were on the hilts of his knives without a thought.

 

He was smarter than his instincts. Run, and the thing would chase. Attack, and it would bite back. Even now, it paced back and forth in his path, head slung low and burning eye sockets locked on him. It didn’t have any choice about bearing its teeth, what with the lack of skin and all, but they were teeth that meant business, packed into a long muzzle. Its movements were sinuous for something with no sinews, and while its general shape suggested something at least within waving distance of a canine monster, it was definitely not a dog.

 

It didn’t pounce, and after the initial stark terror passed, Doggo realized why. He hadn’t run. He wasn’t moving at all, frozen in fright. This thing, whatever it was, was wired like him. It couldn’t see him if he wasn’t moving.

 

If that wiring was the same, maybe some other circuits were the same, too. Studying the creature (an easy task, now that it was constantly pacing to and fro), he noted the way its back hunched, the posture of its long, whippy tail. It was stressed out. He got like that when his paranoia acted up. The thing was probably scared.

 

He’d offer it a smoke, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well.

 

“Easy, mate,” Doggo said, doing his best to keep his voice level and calm. “Didn’t mean to stomp on your face.”

 

The creature paused, making Doggo’s anxiety spike as he lost track of it with his eyes. He could hear the low hiss of its breath, though, and he could smell it.

 

That smell was familiar, in fact. “Say, do I know you?” Talk about mixed signals– everything he’d seen of this creature told him it was something dangerous and new, but the smell… It smelled like a friend.

 

Well, a coworker, anyway.

 

“You smell like Papyrus,” Doggo said, eyes darting around as he tried to catch any hint of movement. “Why’s that, then?”

 

At the sound of the name, the creature straightened up, the movement revealing it again. It was taller than Doggo had first supposed, its withers higher than the tips of his ears. It tipped its head to one side, and then the other, puzzled. Relaxing from its tense curl, the long tail twitched in a slow, tentative wag.

 

“Papyrus,” Doggo tried again, more confident now that he had a name matched with the scent.

 

The creature perked up more. Its lower jaw unclenched, parting slightly at the middle. That made Doggo flinch, but the thing didn’t seem to mean anything by it.

 

“Why are you a great big dragony-wolfy thing all of a sudden?” Doggo asked, keeping his voice soothing and low. He didn’t expect an answer, though he’d very much like one. Was this just a skeleton thing? Was it racist to ask?

 

If so, the lads might have mentioned something about turning into huge, terrifying bone creatures at some point. Just for politeness’ sake.

 

“Hhhhhh?”

 

Doggo forced himself to relax, taking his hands from his knives. “That’s right, mate. We know each other. Er, sort of.” He knew his brother better, to be honest. Everyone knew Sans better. “You know, I always admired how active you are, Papyrus,” he said, dropping the name again. “Very easy to see. Really put me at ease. It’d be nice if you’d move around a little more right now.”

 

Tail wagging in a slow arc, Papyrus shifted in the snow, unsure. “Hhhhhowooo?”

 

That wasn’t Canine, or anything close to it. “If you’re trying to tell me something, you’re not going to get far.” Doggo wasn’t nearly as frightened now that he knew what (rather, who) he was dealing with, but he stayed quiet and kept his own movements slow. He knew how easy it was to lash out in an anxious, jumpy state of mind, and Papyrus was marinating in it.

 

“Having a bad day, Papyrus?” Hearing his name seemed to have a civilizing effect on the usually goofy and harmless skeleton. Doggo would use it as much as possible. “Where’s your brother at, eh?”

 

Hopefully Sans wasn’t in this state, too. Although a lazy, sleepy version of whatever Papyrus currently was wouldn’t be nearly as worrying.

 

“Awoooo…” It was hard to gauge how much Papyrus could understand, but some of the nervous tension seeped back into his spine.

 

“You’re alright, mate.” With the vague possibility of having his face ripped off still firmly at the front of his mind, Doggo slowly held out his hand for Papyrus to sniff. “It’s just twitchy old Doggo.”

 

Despite being many times Doggo’s size, Papyrus shivered slightly as he stepped forward, craning his neck out as far as it would reach to sniff the offered hand. Hot air gusted over Doggo’s paw pads, and at this angle it wasn’t too hard to see the source of the heat nestled at the back of Papyrus’ throat.

 

It wasn’t precisely moving, but a core of raw magic that bright was hard to miss. Good to know that the goofball could do more than just bite Doggo’s head off if he got spooked.

 

“There we go,” Doggo said, taking a chance to pat Papyrus very lightly on the nose. The skeleton creature balked, but allowed the touch.

 

After a moment, Papyrus seemed to decide that pets were okay, and stepped closer, shoving his muzzle against Doggo’s hand. A glimmer of lucidity shone out of his eye sockets. He was in there, apparently, even if whatever was going on with him was clouding his brain a bit. It was nothing Doggo hadn’t experienced himself.

 

Speaking of which, he was going to need to chain-smoke an entire box of dog treats after this. He wished he hadn’t smoked his last one before he got off shift.

 

“Hhhhhwooahhh.”

 

“Yeah, still don’t know what you’re trying to say, Papyrus.” Doggo obligingly stroked Papyrus’ muzzle. Hopefully the deep rumble in his chest was a good thing. He didn’t seem to be moving away, at least. “That’s alright, though. You just take a moment and get yourself chilled out.”

 

After a long session of dedicated chin scratches and head rubs, Papyrus finally stopped nudging for more attention. He did look a lot calmer.

 

Doggo sighed. He was hungry and tired, but it looked like sentry duty was going into overtime. “What do you think, Papyrus, should we find your brother? Where’s Sans?”

 

At the sound of his brother’s name, Papyrus’ eye sockets shone bright and his tail wagged faster. He trotted a short ways down the path to the west, toward Sans’ station. Doggo wasn’t sure if Sans was even there right now, but it was as good a start as any. Papyrus stopped and looked back to see if Doggo was following.

 

“Woohhhh…”

 

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Doggo said, trailing behind his apparently-a-weresomething coworker. “Let’s go get him.”


	34. resets and flowers and ghosts, oh my

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Uncertainty" - For scenitroute, Papyrus remembers resets in some way.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Good As It'll Ever Be" - For anon, Floweypot AU. Flowey is having a rough time on the surface.  
> Warnings: PTSD.
> 
> "But What Should We Watch?" - For anon, post-pacifist ghost fam.  
> Warnings: none.

"Uncertainty"

 

 

Papyrus paused, hand just touching the door knob. His other hand came to rest against his neck of its own accord, fingers toying with his scarf.

 

He had such a headache all of a sudden.

 

He could feel his brother watching him from the upstairs balcony. “You don’t have to go,” Sans said, though they both knew it wasn’t true.

 

Destiny was waiting.

 

Turning to smile up at Sans, Papyrus made a show of adjusting his scarf just right. “It will work this time,” he said, striking what he hoped was a gallant pose. His knees were trembling. “I have a good feeling about this one. They’ll be sure to listen.”

 

Sans frowned, looking older than his age. He was, in a way. They all were. “You always have a good feeling.”

 

Honestly, Papyrus felt he had it easier than his brother. He always had his turn so early, and Sans had to wait until almost the very end. It was easier to be brave when he missed most of…this.

 

He laughed, forcing as much mirth as he could into the sound. “And everything always turns out fine, in the end.”

 

Sans glared at him sharply, and Papyrus let his smile drop. “I’ll be alright,” he said, softer. “It only hurts for a second, I promise.” The pain wasn’t the bad part, but they both knew that well enough. He reached for the door knob again, unable to tarry much longer. “Besides, you never know. They might stop this time.”

 

“Heh,” Sans said, face easing into a tired grin. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go do what you gotta do, then. I’ll be rooting for you like always.”

 

“I know.” Papyrus held his brother’s gaze for a moment, etching Sans’ face into his memory even though he wasn’t the one who had to wait. “I’ll be back,” he said, and stepped through the door into the snow.

 

 

 

"Good As It'll Ever Be"

 

 

For several days after the incident, Flowey was very quiet. Frisk wondered at that. He claimed to be totally without emotion, but clearly he was still affected by things. Maybe emotions were less all-important than some would think.

 

The room was dark now that the sun was setting, but Frisk left the lights off. They sat down next to the terracotta pot. Flowey could leave if he wanted to– he’d figured out ways to scoot the pot around, even it was ungainly compared to moving through the earth. He stayed put.

 

After a long while, he said, “You really should have left me down there. It’s not too late to put me back, you know.”

 

Frisk cleared their throat. “Not taking you back,” they said, voice gravelly with disuse.

 

“I didn’t mean to do it, but I don’t feel bad about it, obviously.”

 

One of Frisk’s classmates had startled him. It hadn’t gone well, though it could have gone a lot worse, too. The kid had been scared witless, but Flowey caught himself before anything…gruesome happened.

 

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t really, but it had been mostly Frisk’s fault for leaving him alone outside. They knew his memories picked bad times to jump out at him, especially where humans were concerned.

 

Flowey glanced up at them from under drooping petals. “This time, it was. It’ll keep happening.”

 

Unless Frisk kept him cooped up in the house all the time, that was true. “You’ll get better,” they rasped, laying a gentle hand atop Flowey’s head. He sagged under the weight.

 

“No,” he said. “I won’t ever get any better.”

 

 

 

"But What Should We Watch?"

 

 

“To think, this pool hasn’t been used since I bought the place!” Mettaton admired the clear, clean water.  The tiles on the bottom made a mosaic image of a dolphin. He’d originally intended on having it re-tiled with a different design– his portrait, maybe. The dolphin was growing on him, though. It added a touch of class.

 

“Yeah, can’t imagine why,” Mads said, glowering at the sun-dappled water.

 

Mettaton shrugged. “Well, I can’t risk a short circuit, naturally,” he said, gesturing at his fabulous but very much not-waterproof body. “But that shouldn’t stop the rest of you, should it?”

 

Leaning slightly over the edge of the pool, Rue shook their head. “If our stuffing gets wet, I expect we’ll grow mold.” They turned to Mads, blank face still betraying some amount of gentle amusement. “Remember how badly you smelled after splashing around in that dump? Your canvas is still stained.”

 

“Oh, thanks a lot! Meanwhile, you’re a regular ol’ satchel of potpourri over here…” Mads sulked, but they’d never been able to get too upset with Rue. They switched targets to Mettaton instead. “Real smart, pinhead. ‘Pool party.’ What a dipstick!”

 

Huffing, Mettaton crossed his arms. “Well, it’s not _my_ fault you chose the body you did.” Because really– cloth dummies? How ridiculous.

 

“Says the guy who swims like a toaster in a bathtub,” Mads sneered. They’d have gone on, Mettaton was sure, but Rue shushed them.

 

“Um, wheeee. I guess…”

 

The other three turned to look at the pool where Napstablook, ever the peacemaker, was hovering half-submerged in the water.

 

“Blooky,” Mettaton said, sighing, “you don’t need to do that. It was a stupid idea, I’ll admit it.”

 

“Oh…” Gently as a breeze, Napstablook rose from the water and glided over to the others. “That was a nice swim,” they said, with an apologetic frown. “Sorry for being patronizing.”

 

Mettaton patted the air near them consolingly. “No, Blooky, I appreciate the effort.”

 

“We could watch TV, or something?” Rue offered.

 

Mads snorted, stitches popping around their midsection. “The first sensible suggestion I’ve heard all day!”


	35. Can't seem to make you mine (Afterdeath sans/sans)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For skeletonsiblings, who requested Afterdeath.   
> Warnings: awkward pushy "flirting" of a moderately metaphorical bent??? Man, I don't know.

“You gotta let your guard down some time.”

 

Don’t look at him. Don’t even acknowledge that you know he’s there.

 

He steps into your path, leering at you with your own face. “C'mon, pal,” he says, with your voice as resonant as if it’s reverberating through your own bones. “Aren’t you tired?”

 

Without breaking stride, you walk right through him. He scatters like smoke in the wind. The chill of him settles in your chest wound, makes the ache sharper.

 

“Rude,” he says, re-forming at your side. “How long are you gonna keep playing hard to get, huh? What’s so important?”

 

He’s made attempts to weaken your resolve before. Cheap mind games.

 

“Don’t you miss your friends? What’s the point of staying here all alone? Don’t you miss your brother?”

 

Your will is stronger than his. You have things to do.

 

“It hurts, doesn’t it? I can fix that,” he says. His smirk widens, and you wonder if you look half as obnoxious when you smile that way.

 

You’re not _totally_ convinced that you’re not hallucinating him. You’re half-delirious with fatigue and pain, and you’re certainly lonely enough to dream up some company. A Death that looks just like you, who spends most of his time simultaneously heckling and trying to sweet-talk you isn’t the company you’d have chosen by a long shot, which is enough to make you doubt that you’ve simply swan-dived off the deep end as your body slowly shuts down.

 

Still, it all feels a little Freudian, if you’re honest. Or maybe it’s Jungian. Psychology was never your thing. No, that would be astronomy, the single most useless field of study a monster could possibly latch onto.

 

It’s the story of your life, isn’t it? Always paying attention to the wrong things. Ineffectual.

 

“Anything you want, just say the word and it’s yours. Wanna see a supernova?” he says, as though he’s been sifting through your thoughts for ammunition. Maybe he has. “I can show you one. The most beautiful death there is– I know you’d love it.”

 

There’s only one thing you want, and he clearly can’t give it to you. You don’t bother to ask for it.

 

You rub at the gash splitting your ribcage as you walk. Maybe pushing through him was a mistake. The cold only seems to seep in deeper as time passes. Another trick– there’s nothing he can really do to you or he’d have done it already. He’s powerless to do anything but wait for you to lose the last scraps of your determination and die. Like a vulture, he keeps circling.

 

“You’re shivering,” he says, because god forbid he ever shut up. “I could warm you up, if you wanted. You just gotta bring it in.” He opens his arms, inviting. The suggestive brow-waggling comes off a little desperate, you think.

 

When he first appeared to you, it was in silence. As his patience ebbs, he’s grown chattier, trying to lure or trick you into giving in. The personification of Death itself isn’t terribly dignified, as it turns out. Especially since you’re taking longer to croak that he deems appropriate. The jokes are cruder and the flirting, if you feel charitable enough to call it that, is more ham-fisted than ever. He’s getting pretty transparent.

 

Heh. Transparent. Because he’s not…solid. Wait, does that work? …Maybe not.

 

You’re living on borrowed time, and you have a feeling you’re gonna pay it all back with interest. Not much energy left over for puns. Gotta keep it together. Gotta keep moving, until it’s done. Until it’s fixed.

 

He’s gonna get what he wants soon enough, can’t the bastard just be patient?

 

You don’t realize you’ve spoken aloud until he laughs.

 

“What can I say?” he says, and before you can reply that he could try saying _nothing_ for a change, he continues. “I’m not used to all this hanging around.” He shrugs. “My domain isn’t so bad, y'know. Why you gotta be such a scythe-tease?”

 

Gross. “You know why.” As if he hasn’t watched your every move since the fatal blow fell.

 

Scoffing, he slings his scythe over his shoulder. Even this subtle movement makes the blade sing, as if it can cut through the air itself. “You know, most people have the sense to die when they get killed. They don’t pull all this ‘boo-hoo, it’s so unjust!’ bullshit. Not like I can’t sympathize with your position, buddy, but it’s not fair to everyone else.”

 

“I don’t care.” You know you shouldn’t rise to the bait. He’s trying to distract you.

 

“Well, you oughta care,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You got your Game Over fair and square– now you’re playing on someone else’s coins. This whole Undying thing really puts a strain on the local reality.” This is the first he’s actually looked serious, frowning thoughtfully. “It’s fascinating how you’re doing this, it really is, but it’s kinda hazardous, in a cosmic sense. You’re like a piece of sand, just…irritating everything.”

 

“Make a pearl, then,” you say, irritated that you lack the mental horsepower to come up with a decent retort. 'Make a pearl?’ Even you’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean.

 

The laughter is more pleasant this time, as though you’ve caught him off-guard. He’s all smiles again. “You’re all the jewel I need, pal.” It’s only a little smoother than his usual shit, but he looks over at you as though seeking praise for his perfect line.

 

He’s warm at your side, and it’s suddenly very appealing to lean against him, just a bit. Just to take some of the weight off your aching feet. You’re so tired– you’ve been in constant motion keeping your body convinced that it’s alive and the effort required to continue the lie is edging on unbearable.

 

He rubs your arm, and you think about how long it’s been since you slept.

 

“I promise I’ll take very good care of you.”

 

His voice is your voice, but it transforms somehow when he speaks, words like cool water. Like the promise of home and rest after a long, arduous day.

 

Finally, you notice that you can touch him, and realize what it means. You shove away from him, your hand sinking through his side just as you’re breaking contact. Redoubling your concentration, you gather your determination to force your physical form to persist. It’s getting harder to keep up, but you can’t leave your work unfinished. You can’t let them win.

 

He can just shut up and wait.

 

A coughing fit seizes you. You muffle your mouth against the crook of your elbow, wrapping your other arm around your midsection as stabbing pain doubles you over. Your mutilated ribs can’t take the motion, each cough making the broken edges catch and grind against each other. The click and screech of bone on bone shivers its way up your spine. The spasms go on long enough that you dry-heave once or twice, though there’s nothing to bring up.

 

When the fit passes you stand stooped over for a moment, shaking and face tear-stained. Fuck. That didn’t feel good.

 

As you lower your arm, you notice an off-white patch on your sleeve where your teeth pressed against the fabric. You look closer.

 

It’s dust.

 

It’s a little bit of your own dust that you’ve coughed up.

 

_Double_ fuck. You turn your gaze on him, glaring. The son of a bitch managed to distract you for a minute at the most, and even that was almost too long.

 

He meets your glare with a provocative grin. “Aww,” he pouts, snapping his fingers. “We were _that_ close, too.”

 

This time, you manage to hold your silence. You’re not getting drawn in again so easily. The throbbing ache in your chest has burned away the chill, snapped you awake and alert.

 

He leans close, but you don’t flinch away. You’re safe on your side of the veil again, and he can’t touch you. Despite this, he makes a show of ghosting his fingertips just over the patch of dust on your jacket sleeve.

 

“The sand’s all run out of your hour glass, pal. Pretty soon, you’re gonna fall,” he says, with his death’s head grin, “and I’ll be ready to catch you when you do.”


	36. Found families (3 shorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "1.0" - For anon, baby bones, Sans meets Papyrus for the first time.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Crocodile" - For anon, something with Asriel and Chara.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Do-over" - For anon, Papyrus remembers resets.  
> Warnings: none.

"1.0"

 

 

The new skeleton was like him, but not exactly. Taller, lankier. Like pulled taffy. Sans decided they were goofy-looking, but there was an openness in their expressionless face. Whoever they were once they were properly alive would be someone nice, he was sure.

 

He watched the air bubbles travel up the length of the vat, the soft tangerine glow of the nutrient gel casting the lab’s only light. His own gel hadn’t been this shade, or this clear. As far as he remembered from his maker’s explanation, the gels were tailored to whatever deficiency in the bones they needed to fix.

 

Sans had had a lot of deficiencies.

 

“You’re lucky you’re not awake,” he said, whispering softer than the hum of the machinery that filled the room. He wasn’t supposed to be down here, but any fear he had of getting in trouble was little match for his curiosity. “It’s boring, just floating in there.”

 

He’d been stuck in the vat for a long while after waking up, too weak and sickly to be decanted right away. This one wouldn’t have that issue– they looked a lot stronger than him already, and they weren’t even done yet.

 

“The doctor says you’re not replacing me.” Sans sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the vat, tapping at bubbles through the thick glass. “I don’t know if that’s true, though. There’s lots of prototypes down here that just sit in storage, y'know?” He studied his not-replacement bone by bone. They definitely had the look of an improved iteration. Version One-Point-Oh, where Sans was some nameless alpha build, a proof-of-concept and nothing more.

 

He wondered if the doctor would put him in storage. He imagined passing the time in some dark, quiet room full of every dusty apparatus that had passed into obsolescence, set aside and forgotten. It would be boring, and lonely.

 

Why would the doctor teach him things if he was just going to be shelved? Why give him a name, and a bedroom, and books?

 

Suddenly angry, Sans cast a churlish glare up at the monster in the vat. “I bet you’re not even that great,” he snapped. “You look better, but I bet you anything that you’re really stupid or something.”

 

That was mean. What if the new skeleton was starting to wake up, and the first thing they heard was someone calling them stupid?

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, tugging at the sleeves of his too-big sweatshirt. “It’s not your fault.”

 

He was the one who hadn’t come out right, after all.

 

 

 

"Crocodile"

 

 

Chara hollered if they got hurt or startled, but Asriel couldn’t recall ever seeing them actually cry before. Wedged back behind the feet of a statue of the Angel, the human blubbered into their sleeves. It wasn’t loud, but the sound was unusual and it put Asriel on edge. He was the crybaby, and that was normally his hiding spot. He didn’t know what to do with the situation reversed.

 

There was no one else in the disused hallway, but Asriel kept his voice down as he approached. “Chara?”

 

“Go away,” Chara sniffled.

 

“Mom’s looking for you,” Asriel said, at a loss. “You missed supper, but she put a plate in the fridge for you, so-”

 

“No.”

 

Asriel paused. “What’s the matter?” If Chara really wanted to be left alone, they wouldn’t have gone straight for the place Asriel always went when he was upset. With that in mind, Asriel clambered up onto the statue’s pedestal.

 

“I made Dad really sick.” Still curled into a ball, Chara snorted wetly and rubbed a sleeve across their face.

 

The buttercups– that had been a dumb mistake on both their parts. “It was just an accident. Mom and Dad aren’t mad. We’re not in trouble.” Truthfully, Asriel was pretty shaken up over his father’s illness. But focusing on calming Chara down was making it oddly easier to stay tough the way his sibling usually was.

 

Chara shook their head, as though getting grounded was the last thing on their mind. That wouldn’t be unusual…

 

“I’m bad,” they said, casting a fretful glance at Asriel from their dark corner behind the Angel. “What if he doesn’t get better?”

 

“He will,” Asriel pronounced. Scooting closer, he wrapped an arm around his sibling’s shoulders, like Mom did when he was upset over something. “Mom’s the best healer around, and Dad’s really strong.” He tried to put more confidence than he felt into the words. It was hard not to worry when Chara was worried, too.

 

Tears subsiding, Chara nodded. “Yeah,” they said, voice croaky. “I guess so.”

 

This would be where Chara told him to suck it up, if it had been Asriel slipping out into the hallway to cry. In Asriel’s experience, a crying fit wasn’t something that could be turned off like a light switch. So instead, he said, “Even if they were mad, we’re family. They’d forgive both of us.”

 

Chara said nothing, leaning against his shoulder and sniffling. One hand came up to clutch at Asriel’s sweater.

 

Soon they’d need to head back to the royal apartments, before Mom got worried. For now, Asriel rubbed his sibling’s arm and waited at their side.

 

 

 

 

 

"Do-Over"

 

 

Papyrus didn’t realize what day it was until he got a text from someone he shouldn’t have. At first, he thought that someone must have gotten a hold of her phone and was playing a particularly mean prank on him, but his own phone’s date and time told him otherwise.

 

They’d gone back.

 

Oh, thank _god_. That had been a bad one…

 

Sans wouldn’t be up for hours yet– Papyrus vowed to make a big, awesome breakfast for the both of them once he got home. Right now, he had training.

 

 

 

“Damn, Paps,” Undyne said, wheezing for air. “you feeling okay? You’re kinda clingy today.”

 

Papyrus released her from the half-nelson turned awkward hug. “Sorry,” he said, shuffling his feet in the dirt. “I’m just glad to see you today. I know it’s not very manly, but I had a…weird dream.” He couldn’t explain it if he tried…but he was just so, so very happy to see her, to be able to talk to her and hear her laugh.

 

Undyne’s expression softened. “Aww, you big dork. C'mere,” she said, opening her arms for a real hug, which Papyrus gladly took her up on. “I’m fine, see? Next time you have a nightmare about me, just remember that I’M ME, DOOFUS!”

 

“Oww!” Papyrus bore the surprise noogie with minimal flailing. “I know, I know,” he said once he was free, “silly to think that anything could defeat you, Undyne.” He rubbed his skull, grinning.

 

She was definitely the toughest, coolest warrior Papyrus knew. This time around, he’d do a better job of making sure she stayed that way.


	37. 1 unheard message (FINAGLC short)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anon, Sans and the voicemail.  
> Warnings: none.

On the one hand, he was being a coward. On the other hand, he didn’t really see the point in submitting to further torture.

 

Sans stared down at the voice mail notification on his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. In a way, this was also torture, but at least it was self-inflicted. His brain ran through every conceivable thing his brother might say, each possibility colder and more horrible than the last.

 

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be as bad as he was imagining. Then again, the situation he was in now was worse than anything his worries had conjured up in recent weeks. Had Papyrus set this up on purpose, or…? But he’d been so panicked.

 

But he’d still let it happen.

 

The circle turned in Sans’ mind for the thousandth time. What had he done to deserve this? Why was Papyrus lying? Was it really so easy to believe that he was the kind of person who would…? Had everyone been waiting for this? For a good reason to throw him away? Hell, maybe he did deserve that.

 

For the thousandth time, his train of thought brought him back around to where he started, as clueless and hurting as ever.

 

He wasn’t going to listen to it. There was no point. He was dumb and desperate enough to go for whatever bullshit Papyrus had in store. He should be kind to himself and delete the message now.

 

…He should just listen to it and have it over with. Knowing was always better than not knowing. What if it was important? Considering the circumstances, that wasn’t unlikely, right?

 

No, it was probably more excuses, or some convoluted explanation that didn’t explain anything.

 

Half an hour later, he caught himself staring at the screen, thumb hovering over the playback icon.

 

Fuck.

 

He tossed the phone away. It landed softly in a pile of straw, screen dimming. Sans stifled a yawn. What time was it, even? He’d have to pick up his phone again to check, which meant expending the energy to crawl over to it.

 

Well, whatever. Like he was going anywhere regardless of how late it was.

 

Not that he _couldn’t_ , but…fuck it. What did it even matter? Here, or literally anywhere else, it made no difference to him at all. Might as well stay. Breaking out would only make him look worse, he was sure.

 

Curling up with the dog bed as a musty pillow, Sans stared, bleary-eyed, at the spot where his phone had landed.

 

He wanted to know what his brother had to say. He _didn’t_ want to know. He desperately wanted some kind of reason why this was happening, why he deserved…all of this. But at the same time, he knew he’d make himself believe whatever he heard.

 

God damn, he needed some rest. Maybe that would help.

 

Right. If the phone was still on when he woke up, he’d listen to the message. If not, then he could stop obsessing over it. Decision made, Sans settled into an uneasy sleep.

 

Sans woke with an itch in his mind, a single bubble rising up from the depths. At long last, it broke the surface. Last night’s confrontation had largely been a frantic blur, but one thing stood out from the morass of accusations and shouting. Clarity hit him like a slap in the face.

 

_He told them it was_ someone _, not that it was_ me _._

 

Eye sockets snapping open, Sans shoved the dog bed aside and scrambled to where he’d tossed his phone. Cursing himself as the brick-stupidest fucker alive, he scrabbled through the straw. His finger bones clicked against something plastic and he gripped the phone, unlocking the screen.

 

Nine percent battery. It was still hanging on. Even through the lightning-bolt panic of realization, Sans hesitated, resolve wavering.

 

The battery display ticked down to eight percent.

 

Sans shook his head. Fuck his feelings. It had been hours now– what if something else really was going on, and he’d waited too long already? 

 

Even if his suspicion turned out to be some kind of perverse wishful thinking, he had to listen. He had to know.


	38. A genius ending, two starts (3 shorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Not Mad, Angry" - For anon, Alphys' neutral ending.  
> Warnings: None.
> 
> "Cooper in da house" - For acornqueen, Sans summons his blaster for the first(?) time.  
> Warnings: None.
> 
> "1990 Capri, as is for parts or project" - For anon, nice skelebro fluff.  
> Warnings: None.

"Not Mad, Angry"

 

 

Alphys wasn’t really cut out for leadership. But alone as she was, she still had some help. Surviving monsters came out of the woodwork to lend their skills and knowledge to the recovery effort. A fire elemental from Snowdin volunteered to oversee distribution of food and supplies to refugee monsters, of which there were many. An old veteran from Waterfall turned out to be a font of good advice and guidance as Alphys adjusted to her new de facto role as Queen. Sans proved a capable and hard-working assistant in the labs. Even the Amalgamates were welcomed with open arms as a new Royal Guard, reunited with what remained of their families.

 

She had lost those most dear to her, but so had everyone else. No one was truly alone in that respect.

 

As the weeks passed she found her footing. Her old anxiety was fading. In its place, fanned by the newfound confidence that accompanied her reign, was anger. It wasn’t the fiery passion of Undyne, or Mettaton’s snappish ire. It wasn’t even the soul-deep grief of King Asgore. This anger was uniquely her own, and it grew stronger with each passing day.

 

They weren’t hurting anyone down here. The friends who’d been taken from her, the sorrow of all the monsters who now depended on her… What gave humanity the _right?_

 

She was patient. She made no grand proclamations, no promises she wasn’t sure she could keep. In public she did her best to raise her peoples’ spirits, a task that did not come easily to her. While the surviving monsters rebuilt, she planned.

 

Her predecessor had left much of their research unfinished. As Queen, Alphys had access to everything stored within the lab’s archives. There were several promising leads, if one had the conviction to follow through, to set aside certain ethical concerns for the good of all. 

 

She’d made a mistake, not killing that human. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

 

 

 

"Cooper in da house"

 

 

 

“What the fuck.”

 

It wasn’t a question so much as a statement to the universe at large. Anger and fear drained away before the wall of absolute what-the-fuckness filling Sans’ mind.

 

The skull hovered overhead, unquestionably tied to his magic. Where had it come from? It wasn’t any attack of his, he was sure. He’d have remembered a fuck-off huge skull like that. Right? This seemed like a first time deal.

 

He had enough to worry about with the world getting all funky around him (again, if the notes he’d found in his own handwriting were to be believed) without adding this to the mix.

 

Reaching up, Sans felt along the jaw of the skull. It felt as solid as it looked. That was weird, too. Conjured bones should still have the ethereal lightness of magic. This just felt like straight-up normal bone.

 

“Was I not already enough of a freak, or something?”

 

The skull didn’t answer. It didn’t do much of anything.

 

Sighing, Sans pulled his notebook and stubby pencil from his jacket pocket and started jotting down notes.

 

 

 

 

"1990 Capri, as is for parts or project"

 

 

“Oh, it’s a little metal skull!” Papyrus turned the gear-shift knob over in his hands, grinning. “That’s so cool! Thank you, Sans.”

 

Sans scratched the back of his head. “It’s not the whole present. Kinda supposed to be a hint.” Sometimes Papyrus was a little too easy to please when it came to stuff like this. He’d been the sort of kid that was as excited about a cardboard box as he was was about whatever had been inside it, and the trait had stuck into adulthood.

 

Eyes lighting up, Papyrus studied the metal skull more closely. “A puzzle! That’s even cooler!”

 

“Heh, well it’s nothing too abstract, bro.” Impatient to see Papyrus’ reaction to his real present, Sans herded him toward the door. “It’s outside.”

 

A battered convertible coupe sat in the driveway. Sans was pretty sure he’d over-payed for it, but without Papyrus’ help he had no way of knowing what anything was worth, so he’d taken a chance.

 

Papyrus blinked, uncomprehending. “Is someone visiting? Is that the present?” He looked around for an unexpected guest.

 

“No, bro,” Sans said, laughing. He gestured at the car. “ _This_ is your present. The car. What good’s a driver’s license if you don’t have anything to drive, right?”

 

The penny finally dropped, and Papyrus looked from the gear shift knob he still held to the car. “Wow, that was a really good puzzle,” he said, voice shaky. A long moment passed while he stared, transfixed, at the old convertible.

 

Sans was well aware that the car was far from great. It was kind of a hunk of junk, as far as he could tell, but Papyrus’ long silence made him squirm. Was it that bad?

 

Tears welling up in his eye sockets, Papyrus spoke through the hands he still held to his mouth. “She’s so perfect.” He took his hands away to lay one on Sans’ shoulder. “Did you really pick this out for me?”

 

“You like it?” Sans heaved a sigh of relief. He should have known better than to worry.

 

Papyrus walked over to run a careful hand along the car’s fender. The paint was faded and chipped. “I love it,” he said, softly. “Thank you so much.”

 

Sans watched Papyrus examine the car with all the reverence of a pilgrim at a holy site. “The top doesn’t go up, so you’ll wanna make sure you check the weather until you get it working,” he said, as Papyrus patted a crooked side mirror lovingly. “And it’s kinda ratty.”

 

“That just means I get to fix it.” Papyrus smiled, brandishing the gear shift knob. “Starting with this!” Setting the knob down on the hood, he swept Sans up into a spine-cracking hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he said, spinning them in a dizzying circle. “Best present ever!”

 

Sans stumbled a bit when Papyrus set him back on his feet, waiting for the world to stop spinning. “Heh. You’re welcome, bro.”

 

Papyrus was going to be swept up in his new project for months, but it was totally worth it just for the look on his face right now. Who was the mayor of Kickass Gift Town? Sans was.


	39. Circumscribe (FINAGLC short)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my-ships-control-my-life, Sans and Papyrus have a conversation post-FINAGLC including tears and hugs.   
> Warnings: PTSD.

He couldn’t speak. Papyrus was vaguely aware that he’d stopped in the middle of a sentence, but he couldn’t recall what he’d said or what he’d been about to say. He’d simply lost all his words again.

 

Leaning against a tree, he tried to get his bearings. He was gripped with the sudden, intense need to get away. But he had nothing to run from and nowhere to go, so he forced himself to be still. His limbs shook with the effort of not running. Breaths came shallow from a chest that grew painfully tight, like he was being squeezed…

 

Pressure around his ribs made him flinch, and it took a worrying moment to realize that it was only Sans. Papyrus returned the hug, clinging to his brother’s jacket with blue-wreathed hands. Sans was saying something, voice a dull murmur, but Papyrus couldn’t quite sort out the words.

 

He’d asked Papyrus a question a minute ago, and he’d been trying to answer when his brain had quit. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and he didn’t know how to stop it. It was like he was stuck in neutral, locked up and unable to unclench his jaw, let alone say anything. The words wouldn’t line up in his head, anyway.

 

Staring out at nothing in particular, Papyrus tried to regain control of himself, and failed. He tried again, and failed again, weary and shaking. He’d been asked a question, and he was stalling, and he couldn’t answer, and he was choking on everything he couldn’t make himself say, and this kept happening over and over, and Sans was going to get mad if he wasn’t already, and-

 

He felt more than heard his brother’s sharp huff of frustration, and burst into tears.

 

Sans muttered something and tightened his hold, an anchoring weight.

 

“I’m sorry,” Papyrus croaked, when speech finally made itself available again. “I’m trying.”

 

“I know.” Sans’ voice was tight.

 

“Please don’t be mad.”

 

“I’m not mad _at you._ ” Sans stepped back as far as Papyrus’ tense arms would allow, peering up at him. “Okay?”

 

Papyrus wasn’t sure if he wholeheartedly believed that, but he nodded. Prying his hands from Sans’ shoulders, he sagged down against the tree, sitting in the snow. Sans sat beside him.

 

“Maybe it’s being out here that’s doing it?” Sans offered, gently tugging Papyrus back to reality when the locked-up feeling started trickling back in. “I mean, everything…um, happened outside, right?”

 

Staring down at his hands, which still held glances of blue flame between the joints, Papyrus shook his head. The location didn’t matter. Although he did have an aversion to talking about Flowey in the house, he knew it was totally irrational on his part. The house had only felt like a safe haven. He hadn’t _been_ safe anywhere, not really.

 

His other concern was more practical, though perhaps not more rational. “If I get upset,” he said, rubbing his knuckles, “I don’t want to be in town.”

 

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.” Sans looked at Papyrus’ hands, but was careful not to stare. “But okay.”

 

They sat in silence for a time. Papyrus felt everything slow down bit by bit– not freezing as before but coming down from the panic-high. The shaking subsided, leaving his limbs heavy.

 

Sans spoke again. “Maybe it’s me.”

 

Papyrus watched him fidget with his zipper toggle. He didn’t like to think how awful the last couple weeks would have been without his brother’s support. Sans had been, and still was, endlessly patient with him. Just having him nearby made Papyrus feel safer, more level. More normal. “You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said. The last thing he wanted was for Sans to take his breakdowns personally.

 

“I’m pretty sure I am,” Sans said, shrugging, “but that’s not what I was getting at. Maybe it’d be easier to talk to someone who isn’t me.”

 

The thought didn’t sit right, and Papyrus frowned. If talking to Sans, the person he was most comfortable with in the world, was this hard… Well, surely it would only be worse with anyone else.

 

And the idea of being vulnerable around someone he didn’t know as well rankled.

 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

 

Sans sighed, and Papyrus felt guilt knotting up in his chest. “I know it doesn’t hold much weight coming from me, but you can’t deal with this by not dealing with it, bro.”

 

“I know,” Papyrus said, again not sure if he really believed that. It was certainly tempting to just never think about it again, ever.

 

“What’s the hang-up, exactly?” Sans rested his crossed arms on his knees. “Because I think we established that nothing you say is gonna make me love you less.” He smiled, a little sadly. “Right?”

 

Papyrus wasn’t sure that was it, but it was something. “I’m sorry I treated you so badly,” he said, and he couldn’t remember if he’d properly apologized before now. When they talked about…everything, it was still mostly in euphemisms and vague asides. Dancing around the subject.

 

They were still doing it. Even inside his own head, Papyrus couldn’t be direct.

 

“Eh,” Sans said, waving him off with studied nonchalance. “I was being a dick, too.”

 

Getting understandably upset after everything Papyrus had put him through wasn’t ‘being a dick,’ but Papyrus wasn’t sure how to put that notion into words properly. “I don’t think anyone could have put up with all that,” he said, speaking around the issue. He couldn’t be straightforward no matter how much he tried, it seemed.

 

Sans leaned against him. “Yeah, well, don’t worry about it. Already forgiven.”


	40. Egg noodles (more knock-off Reborntale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For octopus ink, an AU crossover (of sorts!)  
> Warnings: none, unless Jerry counts.

Papyrus watched as a bound, sloppily-dressed mortal was pulled from the back seat of the car, cloth bag still jammed firmly over his head. The mortal was saying something, muffled by the fabric.

 

“Is he still bitching about the radio station?” The shorter of the brothers shook his head. “Unbelievable. Jerry, you’re a real piece of work. Not gonna miss ya, buddy.”

 

The taller brother– one of Papyrus’ more problematic souls– sighed and helped their captive to his feet. “He could have at least tried to get into the spirit of car karaoke, Sam.”

 

“My feelings exactly, Phillip.” With a flourish, Sam yanked the bag from Jerry’s head, leaving the man blinking in the sunlight filtering down through the trees.

 

Far from looking terrified, once his eyes adjusted Jerry regarded the woods with a disinterested sneer. “Ugh, there’s like a million bugs out here.” Unable to swat at anything with his hands zip-tied behind his back, he blew a puff of air at a nearby mosquito.

 

“Only bugs you need to worry about are maggots, Jer.” Sam shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a low branch.

 

Popping the trunk of the car, Phillip pulled out an aluminum baseball bat and tossed it to Sam. He kept an old-fashioned wooden one for himself, slung casually over his shoulder. He’d used it to dramatic effect on more than one occasion. Papyrus could make out chips, scratches, and a few faint stains near the bat’s end– each one a mark of just how badly Papyrus was failing him.

 

Phillip was a gentle soul, but the people he and his brother worked for were expert at spinning the inhumane (though all too human) violence that powered their organization in a more positive light. With time and growing desensitization, Phillip was getting pretty good at rationalizing his actions on his own. He even kept a running tally of kneecaps.

 

Despite his best inspiration, Papyrus was losing the battle for Phillip’s soul. If he failed today, the mortal could very well go too far at last, out of Papyrus’ reach and into the hands of the Adversary. What a terrible waste of potential goodness that would be.

 

And Phillip could be _so_ good if he tried!

 

“Don’t know why you stick to that beat up old slugger,” Sam said to his brother, taking a test swing with the aluminum bat. It _wuffed_ through the air. “Isn’t it heavy?”

 

“Yes,” Phillip chirped, with chilling matter-of-factness.

 

Jerry shuffled in the dead leaves. “The posturing is pretty lame at this point, guys.” Did he not understand the danger he was in? This wasn’t a sojourn into the forest meant to intimidate or teach a lesson. This wasn’t even a beating. Did this mortal realize that he wouldn’t be getting back in the car when all was said and done?

 

Even if he hadn’t been present to witness the order being given, Papyrus could have sensed the distinct, murdery atmosphere hanging like smog in the air. Either this Jerry fellow had little desire to live, or he was simply too wrapped up in his own malaise to pick up on the signals.

 

Papyrus shook his head, refocusing his attention on his ‘client.’ As an agent of Heaven, of course he didn’t want more murder in the world, but he couldn’t directly prevent it. Even angels had limitations. Free will was a hell of a thing. Jerry’s best chance lay in Papyrus inspiring Phillip to mercy, to being true to himself and standing up to his employers.

 

Phillip wasn’t a killer. Not yet, anyway.

 

There wasn’t much time. Papyrus settled in at Phillip’s side, ready to speak in the young man’s ear. He’d just opened his mouth when he heard a familiar voice whispering nearby. Concentration instantly broken, Papyrus glared in Sam’s direction, where a certain demon was leaning against the shorter mortal’s shoulder.

 

“Oh. Hey, bro,” Sans said, through a yawn. “Didn’t notice you over there.”

 

Feathers bristling, Papyrus pointed an accusing finger at the demon. “Just what are _you_ doing here? Did you follow me?” He moved to stand between Sans and Phillip, shielding his mortal from whatever evil miasma Sans might see fit to exude. Papyrus wasn’t sure how that worked, or even what a 'miasma’ was, exactly, but nothing was getting past him.

 

Sans rolled his eyes. “Relax, bro. I’m not here to mess with that one.” He nodded at Phillip, smirking. “Looks like he’s just a matter of time. I’m here to win our bet, or did you forget already?”

 

No, Papyrus hadn’t forgotten the bet, though the deadline had slipped his mind. They were tied for the month: seven souls saved and seven souls damned apiece. It looked as though this would be their tie-breaker.

 

Papyrus didn’t intend to let an innocent (for a given value of innocent) person be killed, and he _certainly_ didn’t want to have to buy Sans dinner again. Last month the demon had picked the most disgusting hole-in-the-wall bar.

 

Blech, he could still taste the grease…

 

“Yeah,” Sans said, tapping his chin in thought. “I think I’m in the mood for something high-class this month. I’m talking three Michelin stars, here. Paris. Monaco. Some place with atmosphere.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

Sans’ tail twitched back and forth in wicked amusement. “I’m gonna get the most expensive thing on the menu, too, since I know you can’t resist actually paying the bill.”

 

A sour frown pulled at the corners of Papyrus’ mouth. Sans never paid when it was his turn, said it didn’t matter since the mortals seldom remembered them after they left. But stealing was stealing whether the victim knew it or not, and stealing was one of the big ten no-nos, after all. Papyrus tried to make up for it by turning a napkin into gold or some such thing, plus a tip for the server, of course. It was a petty use of a miracle, but better than skipping out on a check for food they didn’t even need to eat.

 

The brothers were hesitating, bats held with a little less swagger and a lot more awkwardness. But for all that neither of them were comfortable with their orders, it didn’t appear that their intentions had changed. They shared wobbly grins, trying to psych each other up.

 

Hmph! Not only was Sans’ mortal moving toward a depraved act with no effort whatsoever on the demon’s part, but he was dragging Phillip down the same road to perdition. That was hardly fair! Papyrus’ job was hard enough without getting ganged up on.

 

Sans returned his attention to his own mortal, but he didn’t have the look of a demon pleased with impending damnation. Grin wilting, he crossed his arms, leaning in to hiss something in Sam’s ear.

 

“Problem?” Noble inspiration once again brushed aside by Phillip, Papyrus watched as Sans seemed to be caught up in a similar struggle with his own mortal. “Isn’t he already doing what you people want him to do?”

 

“Don’t get me started on this guy,” Sans said, tail lashing. “He was one of my best souls, but ever since they picked up that stupid little kid all of a sudden he’s Mr. Good Provider. Total workaholic. Nothing but trouble.”

 

Right, the child. That had actually been a boon to Papyrus, buying some time while Phillip wrestled with his conscience. Odd that they had the opposite effect on Sam. “But isn’t he still damned either way?” Papyrus asked, honestly curious despite himself. Evil was evil, wasn’t it?

 

“As far as Hell’s concerned, sure,” Sans scoffed. “I’m not about to help those Wrath assholes with their quota. It’s gotta be Sloth, or nothing.”

 

How strange. The forces of Heaven certainly didn’t squabble amongst one another in such a silly way. A bit of healthy competition, sure, but naturally that was all in good fun! Demons were so ridiculous. Just another reason that good would ultimately triumph over evil.

 

While the brothers hemmed and hawed, Jerry sat on the ground, somehow managing bored irritation at his stay of execution. “You guys suck at this,” he said, gazing up at his would-be assassins through greasy bangs. “Coulda killed myself at this rate.”

 

“Shut up, Jerry,” said Sam. Papyrus found himself agreeing with the sentiment. Not a bright one, that Jerry.

 

Sans gestured toward Phillip, who was doing some stretches to limber up, bat leaned against a tree. “Looks like Opposite-Day Boy Scout isn’t cooperating, either, huh?”

 

“Yes,” Papyrus sighed, “he’s been an issue for some time.” Hands on hips, he watched his mortal. Murder was negotiable, apparently, but a pulled muscle was not. “I know he doesn’t want to go through with this, but I can’t seem to make an impression on him.”

 

“They both got pretty thick skulls,” Sans said, rapping on Sam’s head. The mortal flinched, running a hand through his hair in confusion.

 

That gave Papyrus an idea. It wasn’t the done thing, but this was an emergency. Heaven would understand– Phillip’s soul was too valuable to lose. Drastic times called for drastic measures.

 

As Phillips picked up his bat again and finally worked up the nerve to step forward, Papyrus made his move.

 

Sans cottoned on that he was up to something a little too late to do anything to stop him. “Hey, bro, what do you think you’re-”

 

Barring the path to Jerry with wings outspread, Papyrus revealed himself. “Stop!”

 

“Aaaaah!”

 

Though he’d never personally revealed his true form to a mortal until now, Papyrus knew the standard opening line was something like “Be not afraid,” or “Fear not, for I bring glad tidings.” Papyrus wasn’t bringing glad tidings; he was bringing a piece of his mind. Still, the bit about not being afraid might have been a good idea because Phillip’s first impulse, just after screaming, was to take a vicious swing at Papyrus with his bat.

 

With a flap of his wings to help propel him, Papyrus stumbled back just as the tip of the bat whooshed past perilously close to his face. He could feel the wind off it. “Oh, my goodness!”

 

There was no second swing. The bat lay on the ground where Phillip had dropped it, and he’d have a difficult time picking it back up now that he was suspended several feet in the air.

 

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god…”

 

His brother darted forward to aid him, equally panicked. With a snap of his digits, Sans rooted him to the ground. The demon revealed himself, feral snarl quickly tempered into the casual menace he’d shown the Nephilim back when Papyrus had first met him.

 

“That,” he said, while the brothers struggled fruitlessly against his unholy power, “was stupid.”

 

“Oh, he was just startled,” Papyrus said, smoothing down his feathers. “He didn’t mean any harm.” He gave Phillip a friendly little wave. “Hello, mortal! Er…be not afraid?”

 

Phillip squeaked a few words of garbled gibberish in reply. Or maybe he was still freaking out. Nearby, still frozen in place in mid-stride, his brother kept up a steady litany of curses.

 

Sans studied Papyrus’ mortal, unimpressed, tail whipping back and forth and wings held tense. “Yeah, the guy who was just about to bash some poor idiot’s head in because his boss told him to doesn’t mean any harm. Sure.”

 

At this, Phillip winced. Whether it was in guilt or terror was hard to discern. Papyrus could urge the mortals not to be scared until he was blue in the face– it wouldn’t mean much while they were staring down the barrel of an annoyed demon. While Papyrus appreciated the concern, he couldn’t help feeling that Sans was overreacting. Even if the blow had connected, a mortal stood little chance of seriously harming an angel such as himself. It would have hurt like the dickens, of course, but that was no matter in the face of saving a soul with saintly potential.

 

“Sans, let them go,” Papyrus said with a dismissive gesture. “Really, there’s no need to make this into a big production.”

 

“Tch,” Sans said, though the look on his face gave away how much more he wanted to say. He shook out his hands and the brothers were released from his power, Phillip falling gracelessly to the forest floor and Sam left shivering and propping himself up with his aluminum bat.

 

“Holy fuck,” Sam muttered, sweating bullets. Phillip found his feet quickly enough and scrambled to his brother’s side, where they cowered together.

 

“That was so fake,” Jerry sighed, terminally unmoved.

 

Papyrus ignored the mortal behind him, turning his best beatific smile on Phillip. “We got off on the wrong foot, didn’t we? I do apologize if my appearance overwhelmed you,” he said, aware that his halo  and graceful yet manly good looks could be a lot to spring on a person without warning. “You’re at a crossroads, and I felt your case warranted more direct assistance than usual.”

 

“He’s saying you’re too brick stupid to take a hint,” Sans snorted. He shot a glare at Sam. “That goes double for you. What’s with the Employee of the Month schtick all of a sudden, huh?”

 

“Let’s all laugh at Jerry. Whatever. I can see the zippers…”

 

Sam clutched at his bat. “What in the hell did I eat?”

 

“I see them, too,” Phillip said, eyes wide. Dead leaves and twigs were still caught in his hair and stuck to his clothing from his rough landing. “Um, pardon me,” he went on, addressing Sans. “Are you the Jersey Devil?”

 

“Wow.” Sans shook his head. “Never imply that I’m from Jersey again.”

 

“We’re agents of Heaven and Hell, respectively,” Papyrus said, indicating his halo. “I would think that would be fairly obvious.”

 

“We don’t normally hang out,” Sans added, somewhat unnecessarily.

 

Jerry snorted. “This is so lame. Like, young adult vampire romance novel levels of lame.”

 

Suppressing the twitch developing in his eye socket, Papyrus soldiered on. “Phillip, your soul hangs in the balance today. Why do you keep pushing aside your better nature?”

 

“And you, pal,” Sans said, clipping Sam upside the head with the edge of his wing. “You’re really digging yourself deeper into the shit than you need to lately. Unless you feel like spending the rest of forever chest-deep in boiling blood you better cool it with the over-achievement.”

 

“But…” Phillip said, subtly moving himself between his brother and Sans. “But this is our job.”

 

“Hell’s crammed with people who were just doing their job, buddy.” Sneering, Sans prodded Phillip’s chest with one sharp claw. “No one cares what a _nice guy_ you really are– it’s about what you do. And what _you_ do is steal, bully, and beat the ever-loving fuck out of people.”

 

Papyrus nodded agreement, trying to ignore the muttered complaining going on behind him. “That’s exactly right. A bat to the head speaks louder than words.”

 

Still keeping a tight grip on his bat with one hand (and rubbing the fresh lump on his head with the other), Sam regarded the two immortals warily. “Look, this isn’t our usual department, alright? Not arguing the facts, or anything, but we’re both gonna be in for a bad time if we don’t finish this.”

 

Apparently awestruck wonder at a higher power didn’t work as well as it used to. Maybe it was all that violence in the media. “We can’t coerce you into sparing this man,” Papyrus said, halo dimming and wings drooping. “You have free will, after all. All we can do is make you aware of the consequences of your deeds.” 

 

Sans snickered, infernal flame dancing in his eye socket. “Well, we _could_ force you, actually.” He shrugged. “But it wouldn’t count, so it’s a wasted effort. This is already too much work, if you ask me,” he said, casting a reproachful look at Papyrus as the flame extinguished.

 

“…and the 'angel,’ if that’s what it’s supposed to be,” said Jerry, who had never stopped talking but could be clearly heard now during the conversational lull, “looks all wrong. They’re supposed to be babes in togas, or something. Why’s this one so gross?”

 

Oh, that was _enough._ Papyrus whirled on Jerry, feathers bunched up and halo glinting. “You wouldn’t know divine radiance,” he said, gesturing to his own angelic features, “if I came up and smacked you in the face, so why don’t you shut up, Jerry!”

 

“Yeah, shut up, Jerry,” Sans called, a wide smile splitting his face as he fought down laughter. “No one likes you.”

 

“Just because I don’t have myriad eyes or four faces or wheels of flame…” Papyrus muttered to himself, ego stinging. Gross? Surely not!

 

Sans nodded sympathetically. “Totally unrealistic beauty standards, bro. Don’t even worry about him.” He gestured to Jerry’s ill-fitting suit. “The guy clearly has no taste. I mean, that’s gotta be polyester.”

 

“Says the loser wearing sweats at three in the afternoon,” Jerry said, before falling into a blessedly quiet sulk.

 

“Anyway,” Papyrus said, shaking off the distraction. “It really would be best all around if you didn’t kill this man.”

 

“As much as I hate to agree with an angel, he’s right.” Sans shoved his taloned hands in his pockets. “I know you guys got some pressure coming down on you from your higher ups, and we get it, believe me. _Boiling river of blood_ , though. I really can’t stress that enough.”

 

Papyrus frowned. “That does sound remarkably unpleasant,” he said, conscious of the understatement.

 

Sans nodded assent. “Besides, what if the kid was here to see this, huh?”

 

Both brothers flinched. Yes, Hell was awful, but mortals never seemed to take it seriously until it was too late. Worldly consequences carried much more weight, for all that they were infinitely more temporary.

 

“Kid’s not here,” Sam said. “We keep 'em out of all this.”

 

“Tch!” Sans’ tail swished one whip-crack arc, and stilled again. “How long’s that gonna work?”

 

“Children are quite perceptive,” Papyrus said, reaching out to gently lay a hand on the end of Sam’s bat. After Phillip’s little bout of panic, Papyrus would really be more at ease with the thing not poised to strike out at him if Sam got overexcited. He pushed, and Sam obliged to lower the bat. “They notice more than you suppose. And they know you’re lying to them.”

 

Phillip shook his head. “We’re being careful.”

 

Sans laughed nastily. “Yeah?” He reached out to pluck a twig from Phillip’s hair. “And when you stumble home tomorrow filthy, covered in dirt with blisters on your hands,” he said, nodding toward the trunk where a pair of shovels waited. “You think they’re gonna buy that you were on a business trip?”

 

“Got a change of clothes in the car,” Phillip muttered, but he’d gone a bit pale.

 

Sam stared hard at the ground, mouth pressed into a hard line.

 

“The kid’s gonna be terrified of you,” Sans said, with a humorless chuckle. “Goofy old cousin Phil, wouldn’t hurt a fly! You know how many shitty adults have been in their life already? They’re never gonna be able to trust anyone once they figure out how wrong they are about _you_.”

 

Deflated and miserable, Phillip looked to his scuffed-up slugger, still laying in the dirt where he’d dropped it. “I… We can’t just be soldiers forever.”

 

Hands flexing against the bat’s grip, Sam cleared his throat. “I can do it,” he said, darting a quick glance at Jerry and then up at his brother. “I can do it myself. You just dig.”

 

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” Phillips said, frowning.

 

Sans gave the mortal another sharp jab with his claw. “No, he shouldn’t.” 

 

Papyrus would have been put out at how the demon was moving in on his territory, but damned if it wasn’t working better than his own approach. 

 

“He only joined up in the first place because of you, isn’t that right? And here you both are, and here,” Sans said, with a sweeping gesture at Jerry and the surrounding trees and underbrush, “is where all that blind ambition has led you. Great job.” He sneered. “But hey, that’s you all over, huh? To hell with the precious few people who actually care about you as long as you get what you want.”

 

To that, Phillip had no retort.

 

Yes, maybe some tough love was what Phillip needed at the moment. By the same token, it was possible that Sam could benefit from love free of toughness for a little while. “It isn’t too late,” Papyrus said, putting faith behind the words in the unlikely hope that Sam could feel his influence. “You’ve gone beyond my reach, but not your own. You can still do better.”

 

Sam had taken to the criminal lifestyle easily, without all the complex justifications Phillip needed to logic-pretzel his way through. It was why Papyrus had decided to focus on Phillip instead. Sam knew exactly what he was doing, and did it anyway. In contrast with his brother, he had dangerously little regard for himself.

 

It was possible, perhaps, that Papyrus had been too hasty in writing Sam off as a lost cause. For someone with a demon on his shoulder, the man was honestly holding up rather well.

 

Said demon turned his attention back to his mortal. “Yeah,” he snapped at Sam. “You can start by slacking off work again.”

 

“That’s real easy to say,” Sam said, fidgeting with the bat. “but my bro’s right. I get that it’s not the best life, but we _have_ something for once. Even if the captain didn’t string us up for letting this shitbag go.” He shot a glare at Jerry, who glared right back. “We can’t just throw away everything we’re working for.”

 

Papyrus sighed. No wonder he’d been having so much trouble with Phillip. Even during a direct confrontation, both brothers were so convinced that they were already too far gone that they wouldn’t listen. Out of some protective reflex, he straightened a wing to curve around the pair, shielding them from the outside world. “And what is it you’re working for?”

 

“Safety?” Sans asked, picking up Papyrus’ train of thought. “You’re never gonna have that, not here.” The chill of his power silvered the air around them, further insulating them from the rest of the mortal plane and its many threats.

 

“And someone as gifted as you could earn money in much more ethical ways,” Papyrus said, patting Sam’s shoulder. The mortal flinched away, jostling his brother. Thoughtlessly, they each reached out to steady the other.

 

Arms crossed, Sans shook his head. “Look, we’re not asking you to up and quit, or anything.”

 

“Though it would be nice,” Papyrus said, hands clasped. “When you’re ready.”

 

“Just dial it back a little.”

 

“This isn’t really you, is it?”

 

“Besides,” Sans said. “It hasn’t rained in like a month. You really wanna dig a grave?” He stamped the hard-packed earth with a clawed foot.

 

“Shut up,” Sam said, voice flat. “Let me think.”

 

A minute passed in wary silence. The air returned to its natural temperature as Sans’ power receded. Papyrus’ wing, still recently healed, soon grew sore. He folded it against his back again, leaving the mortals exposed.

 

“Well, somebody needs to do something,” Jerry groused. “I’m losing circulation over here.”

 

The brothers exchanged a look. Phillip nodded and stepped forward, switchblade drawn.

 

At long last, this seemed to get through to the would-be victim. “Hey, now. Just chill out, Philly, huh? No need for any macho crap, right?”

 

Jerry tried to scramble away but without the use of his hands he simply flopped onto his side. Gradually scooting his way to freedom was unsuccessful. Knife held in a firm grip, Phillip reached down and cut the zip tie binding Jerry’s hands.

 

A measure of tension drained away.

 

Papyrus beamed, his own nerves still buzzing. “Very good, Phillip! I knew you could do it. Doesn’t that feel better?”

 

Massaging his purplish hands, Jerry sighed. “Great, now I have pins and needles.” Any hint that he’d been the least bit concerned about his immediate future was gone, as if it had never happened.

 

Phillip helped Jerry to his feet, scowling. “We’re going to get in a lot of trouble,” he said, folding up his knife.

 

“Maybe,” said Sam. He looked pensively at the bat in his hands. “Maybe not.” He lifted the bat to point it at Jerry, who flinched from ten paces away. “Gimme your rings.”

 

“What?” Jerry clutched his swollen hands to his chest. “What for?”

 

Phillip leaned closer, face pinched. “Do it.”

 

Sam dropped his bat and stepped forward. “Hurry up, Jer, we all know it’s just pawn shop trash. Don’t think it’ll make us even, either. You owe us big time for this.”

 

Now that they’d stepped away, the mortals’ natural ability to ignore the supernatural began to reassert itself. No one looked in the angel and demon’s direction. Papyrus doubted if they’d even remember the encounter by the end of the day.

 

Mission more or less accomplished, Sans sidled closer to Papyrus. He looked much more relaxed, wings slung low and tail in a loose curl. “That was a close one,” he said, watching Sam and Phillip converge on Jerry to relieve him of his rings. “They’d have gotten promoted after this, and it’d all be downhill from there.”

 

Papyrus nodded. “Today worked out better than I’d hoped.”

 

“It did, didn’t it? Granted, I wasn’t hoping for much,” Sans said, “but I’ll take it.”

 

“Jesus, pal,” Sam growled, yanking at Jerry’s fingers. “You’re getting fat.” He staggered back as a ring popped free.

 

“Ow!” Jerry rubbed at the abused finger. “I am not! They’re engorged with blood, that’s all.”

 

The brothers pulled twin faces of disgust. “That’s disgusting, Jerry,” Phillip said, accepting the ring from Sans and slipping it onto his own hand. It was loose. He helped his brother pull off the rest of the jewelry to the tune of Jerry’s loud protests.

 

Papyrus watched the scene, still pleased with his success (another win for the forces of good!) but puzzled. “What are they doing, do you think?”

 

“I think they’re gonna bash each other up a little,” Sans said, tipping his head thoughtfully to one side. “Make it look like Jerry got away on his own.”

 

“Clever.”

 

Sans shrugged. “It’s the kind of thing Sam does to get out of work he doesn’t wanna do, which is most of it. You never noticed that he’s always 'injured?'”

 

“I just thought he had a delicate constitution,” Papyrus said, noting the air quotes. He hadn’t paid terribly close attention to Phillip’s brother until today– the poor health was an act, then?

 

“He does, sure,” Sans said, smirking as the brothers squared up. “Makes it easier to play it up, though, y'know?”

 

Sam was busily explaining where and how to effectively hit him, just as Sans guessed. Mostly body blows, a spot that would guarantee a black eye, a few spots where the skin was likely to split. Phillip nodded assent and indicated corresponding spots on himself.

 

Sans stretched, bones popping softly. “Well, looks like they can take it from here. I dunno about you, but I’m beat.”

 

Now that the excitement was over, Papyrus had to admit that he was feeling rather drained. Who know manifestation was so strenuous? He nodded. “That was somewhat taxing, even for someone as fit as I am.”

 

“Heh. So,” Sans said. “I dunno about Monaco. Too far. Italian, maybe? Not,” he added sharply, “that nasty vegan place you picked last time. Shredded squash and mashed-up vegetables is _not_ spaghetti, in this or any other plane of existence.”

 

“It wasn’t _that_ bad.” Papyrus turned away from the mortals, not caring to see the first awkward punches thrown. They we no longer needed here, for the time being. On that note… “Wait, aren’t we still tied?”

 

Sans fell into step beside him. “Huh. Yeah, I guess so.” He shrugged. “I’ll get beer if you get pizza.”

 

“Acceptable.”

 

They walked for a bit, enjoying the relative quiet of the forest as the brothers’ voices faded in the distance. Yes, today had gone quite well!

 

Sans caught Papyrus smiling and glowered up at him. “What are you grinning about?”

 

“Just thinking about what an excellent job you did inspiring my mortal to do the right thing,” Papyrus said, halo brightening. “I owe you thanks for that.” Sans really had done well. His sense of justice hadn’t dulled a bit since he’d fallen, it seemed.

 

Papyrus drifted in a cloud of vindication. He’d known Sans was still a good person where it counted!

 

“Ugh,” Sans growled. “I was only trying to keep my mortal from working, that’s all. I should thank _you_ for tempting him to laziness.”

 

Papyrus laughed. “Nice try,” he said, clapping Sans on the back. The demon’s wings wobbled, trying to keep his balance. “But you don’t fool me one bit! You’re a good person, whether you like it or not.”

 

Sans’ sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. “Just for that, you can pay for the beer, too.” The demon glared, but the gentle swish of his tail betrayed him. “Smart-ass.”

 

“I’d have had to pay for it either way!”

 

Sans grinned. “See? Evil.”

 

“Tch!” Papyrus shook his head. He wasn’t annoyed, never mind that he hadn’t lost the bet. If anything, he’d _won_ , but that was alright. He didn’t mind covering their monthly dinner again. 

 

As tarnished as they might be, the brothers’ souls were well worth a gold napkin or two.


	41. 2 laughs at sans' expense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Adventures in babysitting" - for 3-2-1-gone, a story involving Sans, a clingy Asriel, and Chara's attempts at acquiring chocolate.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "He can't put his arms down" - for anon, Sans goes with Papyrus to one of his cooking lessons.  
> Warnings: none.

"Adventures in babysitting"

 

 

 

“Your mom said no junk food!”

 

For what felt like the millionth time, Sans grabbed Chara’s soul, dragging the child away from the fridge with his magic. If he’d had the stamina for it, he’d have held the kid in the air for the duration of Toriel’s spa day. He didn’t, unfortunately, and apparently locking L'il Antichrist in their room all day was ‘cruel’ and 'liable to get Child Services involved.’

 

How had he gotten stuck with babysitting duty, anyway?

 

“I’m hungry,” Chara snapped, arms crossed as they drifted gently back into the living room.

 

Sans shook his head. “Then you can have an apple. I don’t make the rules, bucko.”

 

The kid pouted as Sans deposited them back on the couch next to Frisk. “You’re so whipped.”

 

“Whipped,” Sans said, “would be wanting to let you have that chocolate bar, and not letting you because I’m scared of the Wrath of T.” He shrugged. “But the fact is, you’re a little creep and I don’t feel bad for you even a little. Shut up and play your Mario Twins with your sibling, or something.”

 

Although, incidentally, he was also scared of Toriel. Just a tad. The woman could peel paint off a wall with that glare of hers.

 

The deadweight that had been locked around his waist for the last half hour sniffled. “When’s mom coming home?”

 

Sans fought not to roll his eyes. Asriel couldn’t be blamed for having some…attachment issues after all that he’d been through, but that didn’t make the clinginess less aggravating. “Five.” He made another unsuccessful attempt at prying the (literal) kid’s arms loose. “Which is what I told you the last time you asked, and the time before that. Chill.”

 

Asriel started crying. He hadn’t really _stopped_ crying at any point today, but it got louder. And snottier, if the wet patch on Sans’ t-shirt was anything to go by. Ew.

 

“What time is it right now?”

 

“Two-fifteen. Chara, would you please get your-” Sans looked up to find that Chara was– surprise, surprise– not sitting on the couch.

 

The sound of the fridge door opening struck a match on the increasingly short fuse in Sans’ head.

 

“K I D .”

 

Asriel flinched and clung harder.

 

A yelp rang from the kitchen, and at a flick of Sans’ wrist (which nearly clocked Asriel on the nose) the brat sailed through the air. Frisk bounced clear off their own cushion as their sibling landed. Other than sending poor old Mario (or maybe it was Luigi– they looked the same) off a cliff, Frisk didn’t react. This wasn’t the first such occurrence today, or even in the last fifteen minutes.

 

“You wanna give me some help, buddy?” Sans said, a note of building hysteria threading his voice.

 

Frisk gave him a look, and shook their head.

 

Typical. “I’m gonna remember this,” Sans muttered. He edged closer to the couch, easier said than done when Asriel couldn’t get the hint and _walk._ He just wanted to sit down, for god’s sake.

 

Asriel snorted wetly, face buried in Sans’ shirt, which was snotty and tear-soaked. “What time is it now?”

 

“Kid, I am begging you,” Sans said, and- _how was Chara halfway to the kitchen again?_

 

Maybe he could convince Toriel that the doorknob of the kids’ room had gotten jammed. He just needed accomplices. As he grabbed Chara’s soul again, he cleared his throat to get Frisk’s attention off their video game.

 

“How would you two,” he said, talking over Asriel sobs, “like to make ten bucks?”

 

Frisk hit the pause button on their controller. Asriel’s crying subsided, and both kids looked at him.

 

“Ten bucks each?” Asriel asked, wiping his eyes.

 

Frisk grinned.

 

Well, Sans had meant ten dollars to share, but whatever. For a few hours’ break, twenty bucks was a bargain.

 

Damn kids.

 

 

 

"He can't put his arms down"

 

 

“Let’s see,” Papyrus said, tapping one thoughtful finger against his chin and studying his work. “Have I forgotten anything?”

 

Somewhere, underneath a scavenged gridiron helmet, a similarly questionable mouth guard, a snorkel face mask, a couple of couch cushions lashed together with rope and belts, a pair of oven mitts, a set of children’s neon green knee and elbow pads, several yards of preemptively applied pressure bandages, four pairs of socks and a stout pair of too-large galoshes, was Sans.

 

“I'unno, bo,” Sans garbled, around the mouth guard. “'Ow’m I s'pposed t’ f'iggin’ ‘ove?” He flapped his arms as much as he was able (which wasn’t much) to illustrate his difficulties.

 

Papyrus rolled his eyes. “I can’t understand a thing you’re saying with all those apostrophes, Sans. Would you _please_ enunciate when you speak?”

 

Air whistled through the mouth guard as Sans sighed.

 

“Oh! Wait, I think I know what you’re getting at.” Papyrus clapped his hands together once in revelation. “How could I have overlooked something so obvious!”

 

Sans penguin-walked a couple steps closer, hopeful. Freedom was near!

 

Papyrus spun on his heel and dashed up the stairs, taking all hope of Sans getting free of some of this crap with him.

 

“Noseplugs!” Papyrus’ voice rang down from the second floor. “I can’t believe I forgot noseplugs!”

 

Oh, for the love of… Neither of them even _had_ a nose.

 

“Py'us!” Sans waved his arms, doing a good impression of a particularly ungainly, overweight flightless bird and nearly overbalancing himself. He knew protesting was useless. At worst, he might find himself swaddled in yet more 'body armor’ as Papyrus mistook his meaning again.

 

One thing was for sure, he was never going with his brother to Undyne’s cooking lesson again. Ever.


	42. 3 more FINAGLC shorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "House call" - For anon, FINAGLC Sans waking up after the final showdown.  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Pets???" - For anon, post-FINAGLC. What's the deal with Sans' other blasters, anyway?  
> Warnings: none.
> 
> "Protective custody" - For audaciousanonj, a FINAGLC what-if in which Frisk meets the bros.  
> Warnings: none.

"House call"

 

 

Eye-dropper held in rock-steady claws, Gerson let a drop of acid fall on a juncture between two bones. It fizzed merrily for half a minute, after which Gerson carefully worked the blade of his pocket knife between the bones. Cleaning the blade with a rag, he moved on to the next juncture.

 

He’d just started to squeeze the bulb of the eye-dropper when his patient– one of them, anyway– suddenly moved. Quickly, Gerson pulled the eye-dropper away to keep any acid from dripping onto something it shouldn’t, which was most things.

 

“What…?” Sans sat up as best he was able, bleary and still half panicked. “Papyrus!”

 

Gerson gave the lad time to assure himself that his brother was still there. It didn’t take long, considering.

 

“There now, sonny,” Gerson said, doing his best to sound soothing. It didn’t come naturally to him. “He’s just fine.”

 

Young Papyrus most assuredly was _not_ fine, but there was no sense worrying the boy further.

 

Seeming to notice him for the first time, Sans turned his gaze on Gerson. Wide eye sockets made him look even younger than his years, bewildered. “We were in the forest,” he said, still disoriented.

 

Gerson nodded patiently. “Yes, and she,” he said, inclining his head toward the table, where Undyne sat asleep, head pillowed on her arms and an afghan draped around her shoulders, “carried you both back here.”

 

An unreadable expression crossed the young skeleton’s face as he studied Undyne. He moved to stand, being careful of his freshly-healed ankle, only to stumble when his brother’s arm pulled him up short. Puzzled, he stared at their clasped hands. He flexed and straightened his fingers, frowning as his hand stubbornly stayed joined to his brother’s.

 

“I was trying to fix that when you woke up.” Gerson shifted on the chair he’d borrowed from the table. The seat was hard and he’d been sitting for hours, patching up wounds and stabilizing Papyrus as best he could. “The bones have grown together,” he said, reaching out to tap Sans’ knuckles.

 

Sans gave his hand an experimental shake. His brother’s arm flexed like a heavy rope, but their hands were still connected. Under other circumstances, it might have been funny. “How?”

 

Gerson shrugged. “If I had to put money on it,” he said, stroking his beak, “I’d say the two of you have very similar souls.” His rheumy eyes focused on Undyne again. “And strong healing magic wielded by an inexperienced healer would be hard-pressed to tell where the one of you ended and the other began. Could be that the gap between your palms looked like just another break to mend.”

 

With his free hand, Sans probed at the tiny spars of new bone stitching him and his brother together.

 

“Here,” Gerson said, nudging the small bottle of acid at him. “Hold this for an old man.”

 

Uncomprehendingly, Sans held the bottle while Gerson refilled the eye-dropper.

 

Pushing and pulling their hands into a good position, Gerson poised the eye-dropper over one of the spars. “You’ll need to hold still. This is nasty stuff.”

 

Whether it was a whiff of acrid chemicals or lucidity returning at last, Sans flinched back. “Don’t hurt him,” he snapped, with noble and totally misplaced protectiveness.

 

“Unless you want to hold your soup spoon in your off hand for the rest of your live-long days,” Gerson said, levelly, “you’ll let me finish my work.”

 

Sans glowered at him.

 

Gerson sighed. “He’s too far under to feel it, son,” he said, hoping the lad took comfort from this and didn’t think too much on why his brother was beyond the reach of pain.

 

As Sans reluctantly moved back into place, Gerson repositioned the eye-dropper. “You, on the other hand,” he said, blinking at an unexpected weak chuckle from Sans, “are in for a fairly miserable hour or so.”

 

The first drop hissed and fizzed on contact with fresh bone, and drew an echoing hiss from Sans. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. Frail as he was, he had grit– Gerson would give him that.

 

The cycle of dissolving unwanted bone and carefully prying bones apart with the pocket knife continued. Sans bore the pain stoically, watching his brother for any signs of distress. He wouldn’t find any.

 

Gerson had most of his mind on his work, but a corner of it was free to lament the whole sorry situation.

 

He’d seen monsters fall down and manage to come back. Papyrus was as strong as any monster he’d served with during the war, and was plainly well-loved. The boy had as good a shot as it was possible to have. But the fact remained that, in most cases, falling down was a one-way trip. With their physical forms melded as they were, there was a chance that the necrosis could spread to Sans if and when worst came to worst.

 

As always, Gerson did his best to remain positive in the presence of the ill and injured. Still, he was a realist, and many years of bitter experience urged him to do what he could to protect Sans before he got too caught up in hope for the brother.

 

He found himself wondering whether separating the bones would help. Falling down could be contagious, in its own way. Some monsters were more resilient than others. And some simply couldn’t survive the loss. Gerson had seen it all too often. A husband after a wife; a parent after a child. One following another into the quiet dark.

 

The same look lay in Sans’ eyes that Gerson had seen in so many of theirs. Lost.

 

In the end, it took a little over an hour to free Sans’ hand. When at last the final outgrowth of bone was separated, Sans studied his palm. Gingerly, he brushed his fingers over the rough patches that remained.

 

“It’ll wear smooth in a few days,” Gerson said.

 

He laid Papyrus’ arm on the couch. The slack hand had it’s own rough spots that would have to be properly dealt with later. He suspected that most of the extra bone tissue had belonged to the fallen brother. Not belonging to Sans, any that remained on his hand would naturally slough off as it turned to dust.

 

“Thanks,” Sans said, sounding unsure.

 

Gerson stood, stiff after sitting too long in one position while he worked. “You’re welcome, son. Now,” he said, putting the bottle of acid back in his supply bag. “I’m an old man who’s put in a very long day, and I’ve got a room at the inn waiting for me.” He gathered up his walking stick. “Send for me if you need anything, but for now I’m going to rest while I can.” In truth, he was tired and aching, ready for a bowl of hot soup and a soft bed. But more than that, Sans needed some time alone, before the girls woke up.

 

Sans nodded. He didn’t move to take the vacated chair, but stayed kneeling at his brother’s side. Though it must have been extremely sore, he threaded his hand back through his brother’s. Gerson had a feeling he’d find the lad in the same place on his return.

 

Stepping out into the snow, Gerson let out a weary sigh, steam billowing from his beak. He’d done all he could– the rest was a matter of will and luck. He hoped Papyrus could beat the odds, and not just for his own sake.

 

 

 

"Pets???"

 

 

“I mean,” Sans said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re all Cooper. It’s like a…copy-paste thing?”

 

“Then why are they acting like this?” Papyrus stood in the eye of tropical storm Cooper. The blasters shoved and snapped at one another, jockeying for a place closer to Papyrus. Bones clacked and scraped as they circled.

 

Sans shrugged. “Don’t pet one if you’re not prepared to pet all of them, I guess.”

 

Attacks weren’t capable of jealousy, or anything else of that nature. The very idea was utter nonsense! Even if the blasters could feel such a thing, they were literally all the same blaster!

 

“Down!” Papyrus snapped, flicking an especially pushy Cooper on the snout. It hissed, drifting back reluctantly. Outside the maelstrom of doofy death-rays, Sans made a small, hurt sound.

 

Papyrus scowled. “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to get knocked over at this rate.”

 

Sensing rejection, the blasters crowded closer en masse, plaintive whines building in each mouth. With this many of them, Sans couldn’t control them with a great deal of accuracy. Not consciously, anyway.

 

At a loss, Papyrus patted the nearest blaster. “This is completely ridiculous!” A second blaster nudged its way under Papyrus’ free arm, yet another snuffled at his chest. He cast a pleading look at his brother. “Can’t you call them off?”

 

“Ehh…?” Sans spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

 

What was that supposed to mean? “You think this is funny, don’t you?” Papyrus snapped. Another blaster scooted close enough to nip at the hem of his shirt, begging for attention. He scritched it under the chin.

 

“Actually,” Sans said, kicking at the snow, “it’s kinda embarrassing. I swear I’m not really this insecure.”

 

Papyrus rolled his eyes. “Then get over here and help me.” He summoned his own blaster– just one. If Lucy could be summoned multiple times Papyrus didn’t know how. At least he had something at his back now.

 

“Dunno what good it’ll do for me to scratch ‘em.”

 

Lucy opened its jaws, gently chomping the snout of a nearby Cooper. This proved an ineffective deterrent, but at least the blasters scrubbing up against Lucy weren’t bothering Papyrus directly.

 

“Self esteem exercise?” Papyrus tried.

 

He only had two arms; this was going to take ages.

 

 

"Protective custody"

 

 

They were well aware that the skeletons had seen them dive behind the rock, and so it wasn’t such a great hiding place. But standing up to run meant making themselves a target for whatever that big skull did. In their brief experience, anything a monster made out of their magic meant nothing good, and that thing was bigger and scarier than valentine hearts and chunks of ice, or even knives and axes.

 

They’d dropped their stick in their haste to get away, too. Not that it would do much good. They couldn’t imagine a skeleton would want to play fetch.

 

A clatter of wood on stone very nearby made him crack one eye open. Their stick lay next to them on the ground. The huge skull was already retreating, returning to the taller of the two skeletons. Peeking out from around the rock, they looked from the skull to the stick and back again.

 

Maybe fetch was more universal than they thought.

 

“Hello, there,” the taller skeleton called. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

 

The shorter skeleton waved. “You wanna come out, pal? We won’t bite ya. You just startled my bro, that’s all.”

 

Gathering their stick, they stepped out from behind the rock, knees shaking. They really didn’t want another fight.

 

The taller one had most of their attention, since that big skull seemed to belong to him. He wore a violet tabard with the same insignia Mom had on her robes over some kind of light leather armor. For some reason, he also wore a bright red scarf that clashed with everything else. One gold tooth glinted in the dim light of the cave.

 

The shorter one, by contrast, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. The same insignia was haphazardly embroidered on his hoodie. He wore a friendly grin, but that might not have meant anything. Skulls kind of grinned no matter what.

 

“There you go, kid,” the shorter skeleton called, encouraging.

 

The taller one turned to him, leaning down to speak in hushed tones that Frisk could nonetheless overhear in the echoing cave. “The reports were true.”

 

“Right?” the shorter one answered, shrugging. “Here I thought Doggo was just hitting the dog treats too hard. That’s a human, for sure.”

 

“What should we do about it?” The taller skeleton darted a worried glance their way. The huge skull stared openly.

 

“Dunno, bro. They don’t seem dangerous. It’s just some kid.”

 

The taller skeleton looked unconvinced, stroking his chin with a gloved hand.

 

Frisk took a chance and tossed the stick. It hit the ground near the skeletons’ feet.

 

The pair stared at the stick. “What was that about?” the taller one asked.

 

“I think they threw it for Lucy,” the shorter one answered.

 

The taller one studied Frisk carefully for a moment, then stepped back. The skull dipped down to delicately pick up the stick in its jaws. It drifted over to Frisk and dropped the stick into their waiting hands, then returned to its owner again. It might have been wishful thinking, but they thought the taller skeleton looked a little less tense.

 

“So,” the shorter skeleton said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Where are you headed, kid?”

 

Frisk pointed past them down the path.

 

“How about that. We’re going the same way.” The shorter skeleton beckoned them closer, and Frisk approached with halting steps.

 

As they all got underway again, Frisk couldn’t help noticing that the skeletons had flanked them, walking on either side with ‘Lucy’ trailing behind. It felt a lot like they’d just been captured.

 

The taller skeleton looked down at them with an expression that wasn’t as friendly as the other’s but wasn’t unkind, either. “We have business in New Home,” he said, shifting his satchel higher on his shoulder. “But we’ll accompany you for as far as you’re going.”

 

“Yeah,” the shorter one said, chuckling. “We’d be crappy guards if we let a lost kid wander around by themselves, right?”

 

Gentle as the pair acted, it was clear that their gracious offer to accompany Frisk to the monster capital was anything but an offer.

 

Oh, yeah. Captured.


	43. 4 unrelated shorts (post-pacifist frisk, soriel, sans & undyne gen, FINAGLC what-if)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Art therapy" - For stealikeanartist, fluff with Frisk and the skeles.  
> Warnings: PTSD
> 
> "Consolation" - For simonsoys, any kind of soriel.  
> Warnings: brief reference to suicide
> 
> "Pretty cool" - For anon, a nice moment between Sans and Undyne.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "Do not pass Go" - For anon, post-FINAGLC Papyrus gets a hug from a Chara-infested Frisk.   
> Warnings: violence

"Art therapy"

 

 

Papyrus stood with Frisk at the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the tarmac. “Wave!” he said, pointing out the plane that held Toriel. “Maybe she’ll see!”

 

Squinting up at him doubtfully through the cloudy lenses of their glasses, Frisk nevertheless went along with the suggestion, waving at the plane as it taxied gently down the runway.

 

At their other side, Sans gave them a nudge. “Well,” he said, “what do you think, pal? Should we hit up the drive-through on the way home?”

 

Frisk nodded enthusiastically. The poor kid was probably overdue for a break from healthy, home-cooked meals.

 

As they left the airport, Papyrus scoffed. “We can’t just feed them take-out all weekend, Sans.”

 

Sans shrugged. “Hey, I’m just trying to be a good house sitter. We can’t go making a mess outta T’s kitchen.”

 

They reached the car, and Papyrus folded his seat forward to let Frisk climb in the back. “Hmph,” he said, turning the ignition. “Well, you’re not eating in my car. Not after what happened last time.”

 

“Hear that?” Sans said, looking back to wink at Frisk. “We gotta wait. The Lord High Fussbudget has spoken.”

 

“I didn’t say Frisk couldn’t, just you,” Papyrus said primly. “Frisk is trustworthy.”

 

A small laugh sounded from the back seat.

 

“Bro!” Sans said, only mildly affronted but playing it up. “I cleaned it, didn’t I?”

 

“I can still see the stain.”

 

Sans chuckled. “Of course you can. Fine. I’ll ab- _stain_ from eating in the car if I _must_ -ard. _Let_ tuce keep the upholstery safe, huh?”

 

From the back seat came a slightly bigger laugh, and from the driver’s seat the scrape of grinding teeth.

 

“Aw, c'mon, bro. Don’t get _salty._ ”

 

 

 

Back at Toriel’s house, Frisk put on a movie and the three settled around the coffee table to eat. The kid nibbled their burger and fries happily. Eating junk food, and in the living room no less. With the TV on! Sans was pretty sure every aspect of this was breaking Toriel’s house rules, but he figured it was his and Papyrus’ sacred duty to let the kid run wild for a couple days.

 

Besides, he mused as a pickle slid out onto the carpet, he could count on his brother to clean up the evidence.

 

Papyrus set his milkshake down on a coaster. “Wouldn’t it be easier to see,” he said to Frisk, nodding toward the TV, “without those glasses on?”

 

Frisk shrugged and gnawed on a fry, eyes glued to the screen.

 

Sans met his brother’s concerned gaze over the top of the kid’s head and made a helpless gesture. The kid insisted on the glasses, despite that they didn’t need them and that the lenses were badly scratched. Toriel was worried that Frisk would damage their eyesight, and she was probably right.

 

It was no good pushing the issue, though. Trying to take them away or hide them always went badly, so all that was left was to wait and hope they’d let the glasses go soon.

 

Once they’d all finished eating, Papyrus cleaned up the mess. Frisk curled up at the end of the couch, squinting at their phone.

 

“Texting your Mom?” Sans asked, putting his feet up on the coffee table. “She get to the convention center okay?”

 

Frisk nodded, tapping out another message. Heh, Toriel was probably more worked up over leaving Frisk for the weekend than the kid was.

 

The evening passed with companionable chatter and PG-13 movies that Frisk wasn’t officially supposed to be watching. Around eleven, Sans noticed a critically high frequency of yawning. By eleven-thirty, the kid was out like a light, leaning against Papyrus and drooling on his shirt. Their glasses were askew, and it was tempting to simply pluck them off their face.

 

“This,” Papyrus whispered, “is why she instructed us to send them to bed at ten o'clock.”

 

Sans shrugged. “Okay, buddy,” he said, reaching over to shake Frisk awake. “Get up so you can go back to sleep, eh?”

 

Sleepily, Frisk trudged up the stairs and dutifully went about brushing their teeth and washing their face. In their room, Papyrus turned down the covers. Out of habit, Sans perused the bookshelf for a suitable bedtime story, though he suspected the kid wouldn’t go for that. Fluffy Bunny was nowhere to be seen.

 

Pulling out a book with a worn spine to read the cover, Sans disturbed several loose sheets of paper hidden between books. They scattered on the floor.

 

“Are you making another mess?” Papyrus walked around the bed, stooping to help gather the fallen papers. “I swear, disorder follows you.”

 

“Hey, can’t help it, bro,” Sans said, scooping up papers. “Entropy is inevitable.” His chuckle withered in his throat when he saw what was on each piece of paper.

 

Papyrus had gone quiet. Glancing up at him, Sans saw him frowning intensely at the papers in his hands.

 

They were drawings. All of them featured Frisk. Most of them also featured at least one monster, many of whom the brothers recognized, including Toriel and themselves.

 

They weren’t nice drawings.

 

“Man,” Sans said, clearing his throat. “The kid must go through red crayons like crazy.” Not to mention gray. “Do you think T knows about these?”

 

Papyrus riffled through the drawings he held. “I don’t know,” he said, uncharacteristically subdued. “What do they…” He trailed off, gaze drawn by movement in the doorway.

 

Frisk stood half-in and half-out of their room, pale as a sheet. They darted across the room to snatch the papers back. Drawings crushed to their chest, they stared at the floor, trembling.

 

Making an abortive attempt at comforting the human, Papyrus stood with hands hovering awkwardly in front of him. “We’re sorry,” he said, uncertain and distraught. “We didn’t intend… It was an accident.”

 

“Sorry, kid,” Sans echoed, at a loss. What should they do about this? Call Toriel? And what then? She was a thousand miles away; even if she got on the next flight home it would be morning by the time she arrived, and even then…

 

Okay. There was no reason to fly into a panic over this. Judging by how many drawings there were, this had been going on for weeks, if not months. The teaching conference would only last a few days. He and Papyrus could handle this themselves until Toriel got back.

 

Somehow.

 

While Sans’ head spun with possible courses of action, Papyrus pointed to the drawing peeking out from between Frisk’s arms. “Is that one Undyne? It’s very cool,” he said, gently. “I like the armor you gave her, and the laser vision.”

 

Blinking back tears, Frisk loosened their grip on the papers, no longer scrunching them.

 

“May I see?” Papyrus said. He moved to sit on the floor, back to the footboard of the bed. Frisk sat down beside him. After a moment’s hesitation, they flattened the papers on their lap to let Papyrus look the drawing over.

 

Sans sat down at Frisk’s other side, unsure.

 

Papyrus pointed out a rendering of what must have been Frisk. “Ah, you’re dueling her? She’d like that. You made her look so heroic.”

 

“Yeah,” Sans said, aware that he was on shaky ground but wanting to help out. “Good use of, uh, negative space.”

 

They went through the drawings one by one, showering the kid in praise even as the subject matter grew increasingly troubling.

 

“Oh, look at all those great flowers!” Papyrus exclaimed over one. Sans had never seen flowers like that before. He was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to have teeth. Or…rocket launchers? Or whatever those fleshy protuberances were.

 

Sans forced a chuckle at a drawing of himself and the kid. “Heh, Papyrus wouldn’t let us in the car with that much ketchup on us, for sure.”

 

“Definitely not,” Papyrus agreed, voice carefully level. “Though I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find you two making a mess like that.”

 

A picture of the kid and his brother made Sans’ stomach churn.

 

“You really captured my best features,” Papyrus said, pointing out his own severed head. “Which are all of them, naturally!”

 

Sans chuckled thinly. “Yeah,” he said. “Why isn’t his head attached?”

 

Frisk cuddled against Papyrus’ side and thudded their heels restlessly against the floor. A small, dry sound escaped their throat. Their hand came up reflexively to straightened their glasses.

 

“It’s abstract, Sans,” Papyrus said, glancing meaningfully over the top of Frisk’s head. “You philistine.”

 

Clearing his throat, Sans nodded his understanding. “Oh, right. I see it now.”

 

It was far past bedtime now. The kid didn’t look so spooked anymore, so Sans pushed himself to his feet.

 

“Okay, Picasso,” he said, extending a hand to help Frisk up. “How about a bedtime story before you crash out?”

 

To his surprise, Frisk nodded. The kid clambered into bed while Papyrus plucked a copy of Advanced Puzzle Theory from the bookshelf (last year’s Giftmas present from him, of course). The glasses stayed on, but neither brother said anything about it.

 

The crawling sensation hadn’t left Sans’ midsection as he read aloud. This went way beyond clinging to an old pair of glasses for comfort. Those pictures…

 

Well. He and Papyrus could discuss this whole…situation once the little human was asleep. For now, Frisk was reassured. There wasn’t much else they could do until Toriel got back.

 

What else would they find before then?

 

 

 

"Consolation"

 

 

Walking over this rampart, it was hard not to stop and admire the courtyard and its carpet of golden flowers. Toriel leaned against the stone as she did most days, gazing down at the flowers and the facade of the royal apartments. She hadn’t moved back into them, electing to sleep in a different wing of the castle entirely. There was no need to see the inside of those homey rooms again. They were empty, housing only old things she had no use for any longer.

 

Her new Captain of the Royal Guard moved carefully through the flower patches, watering can in hand. Poor Papyrus. He went about his duties with a smile on his face, as if tending the flowers were the most important job in all the world. No complaints to be heard, though he surely aspired to more than gardening.

 

“He’s gonna drown those poor things.”

 

Toriel no longer jumped when Sans simply…appeared next to her. He had a way of showing up wherever he decided he needed to be, and wasn’t inclined to explain how. She’d accepted this as part of the landscape of her life.

 

“They’ll be fine,” Toriel assured him, watching his brother stop to refill the watering can. “If they could take years of two children trampling over them, they can handle a bit of water.”

 

Sans hummed agreement. The pair stood for a moment, silent and thoughtful.

 

Chin leaned on one paw, Toriel sighed. “It sounds mad, but it’s a comfort seeing him spend so much time in the courtyard,” she said. “They’ve got some cheerful company, at least.”

 

As always, Sans was prescient enough to know she was no longer speaking of the flowers.

 

“I never see you down there,” he said, softly.

 

Toriel straightened, running the cuff of her sleeve across her eyes. “Yes, well,” she said, lips curved in a wavering smile, “as you said, the flowers are watered quite enough as it is.” She blinked, and her eyes were dry and clear. “And there’s work to be done. I neglected my duties for far too long, after all.”

 

She had visited the courtyard just once since her return, to scatter the dust.

 

“I’m so old,” she murmured, more to herself than to Sans. The only child she would ever bear slept beneath those flowers. As did his father. Even after everything he’d done, Toriel had never wished Asgore dead. Time and distance aside, now that he was gone she felt wholly and strangely alone.

 

Her last human child was gone, too, as a result of Asgore’s death. Alive, thank goodness. But never to return. All vestiges of family had left her at last.

 

Her people mourned their king. Mourned the hope of freedom, shattered at the final moment. They needed her guidance, her strength. She couldn’t indulge her own sorrow. The danger of being swallowed up by despair, of falling and never rising, was perilously close.

 

If she stood in that courtyard among the golden flowers, if she entered those quiet rooms filled with toys and books and inexpertly knitted sweaters…

 

A slight weight settled against her side. A small, thin hand rested upon her arm. Sans asked no questions. He never did, bless him. He simply remained where he’d decided he needed to be, and Toriel was glad of it.

 

His brother continued his methodical circuit around the courtyard, watering the flowers and speaking kindly to them.

 

Wordlessly, she covered Sans’ hand with her own.

 

Perhaps she had some family left, at that.

 

 

 

"Pretty cool"

 

 

“Hey, you got a minute?”

 

Undyne removed her helmet to get a better look at who was flagging her down. It was Papyrus’ brother. They were on okay terms, but they didn’t really talk. She wondered what he wanted. “Yeah,” she said, shaking out her ponytail. “Everything alright?”

 

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah. I just wanted to thank you for, y'know, working with my brother and all.”

 

Was that all? “Don’t sweat it. It’s no big deal.”

 

“It is to him,” Sans said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And to me, too, actually. Don’t let on that I said this, but he’s been pretty down. He’s perked up a lot since you guys started hanging out.”

 

“Oh?” It was hard to picture the bubbly skeleton being depressed in any way.

 

Sans glanced away. “Look, I didn’t want to make it weird, or anything. I just felt like I should say something, that’s all.”

 

Undyne clapped a hand on his shoulder, nearly bowling him over by mistake. “Hey,” she said, giving him her most serious look. “It’s not a pity thing, okay? Your brother’s actually pretty cool. I like him.”

 

The quality of Sans’ smile changed instantly. “Yeah, you know,” he said, looking her over as though seeing her for the first time. “You’re pretty cool, too.”

 

 

 

"Do not pass Go"

 

 

How could someone so small be coated in such a thick layer of dust?

 

Papyrus shivered, not with cold but with a terror he’d hoped never to feel again. Mingled with the fear was gratitude that the human had continued east through town rather than turning north, where Sans and what remained of the Snowdin guards were helping the last of the evacuees escape via the river.

 

The little human stared up at him. They didn’t speak. They didn’t even blink– just stared with eyes as lifeless as chips of glass.

 

Papyrus stared back. He didn’t know what to say, or do. Magic crawled over his bones, ancient instinct and newer reflexes ready to defend himself, along with all the monsters of Waterfall and beyond. It was already too late for the forest.

 

“I see,” he said, voice quavering, “that you’ve made it past the dogs.” And Chilldrake. That poor girl; she’d been so excited to become a sentry.

 

He didn’t hold out hope that any of them had gotten away. There was so much dust.

 

The human said nothing.  

 

“Maybe you were frightened,” Papyrus said, mostly to himself. “Or maybe there was a misunderstanding.” He doubted either scenario. This…being didn’t seem capable of fear. Or anything else, for that matter. Hatred rolled off of their small body in oily waves, flat and implacable. Was this the strength of a human soul, as Flowey had warned him?

 

Papyrus could nearly hear the voice, could nearly feel the tickle of petals. _What are you waiting for, idiot?_

 

He’d just steeled himself to strike a decisive blow when something about the human changed. Papyrus didn’t know what, but something was different. It took a moment to realize that it was the human’s eyes. The color and shape were unaltered, but some spark of life had come into them. All at once, the child was a _child_ , and not…whatever they had been before.

 

The human raised a hand to scrub their single glove across now-living eyes. Dust mixed with fresh tears to create a sort of plaster on their skin. “I did something bad,” they said, shaking when before they had stood unnaturally still.

 

“Yes,” Papyrus said, and frowned. He could feel no more killing intent from the human, but why? Paranoia coiled tripwire-tight in his chest.

 

Sniffling, the human took a step forward. “I’m sorry,” they said, hands outstretched, seeking comfort. From him? Why? “I wanted to see what would happen. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

 

They approached, and though his magic flared in warning Papyrus allowed himself to be hugged. Dust smeared over his clothes. What was going on? Was this a gambit, meant to lure him off guard? What would be the purpose, when the human could surely kill him with a single attack. How many of his neighbors, his friends, had already been struck down this way?

 

They didn’t attack. Remorse had taken the place of hate. Papyrus could feel it, stronger now that the source was so near.

 

Were they…giving up? Was it over? Hope twisted around Papyrus’ arms, making them quiver with the urge to give the comfort asked of him. To forgive, and show mercy.

 

_Coward. Idiot. Hypocrite. How much dust is already on those hands of theirs?_

 

With their small arms locked around Papyrus’ waist, the child cried.

 

No. He knew better. It wasn’t worth the risk.

 

Summoning a bone club, Papyrus brought it down upon the human’s head with a crack of bone on bone. The human slumped down into the snow, insensible. A thin trickle of red snaked down from their hairline.

 

Papyrus took a deep breath. The club dissipated, its task complete.

 

He dug his phone from his pocket, dialed the number he needed.

 

“Undyne?” he said, after she’d picked up and he’d had a chance to assure her that he was alright. “You need to come to our house right away.” With one arm, he scooped up the small body and started for the shed at a fast walk.

 

Child or not, sorry or not, no one else was falling victim to this human. Papyrus couldn’t allow it.


	44. 3spoopy (Horrortale, 2 Flowey shorts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Soup's up" - For backpackerscolipede, a fun/horrifying Horrortale scene.  
> Warnings: gore, cannibalism (does it count if it's not humans doing the eating???), everything is terrible lol
> 
> "Bend" - For babycharmander, Flowey approaching and crossing his Moral Event Horizon.  
> Warnings: intrusive thoughts, suicide baiting, general cruelty (it's Flowey)
> 
> "All hail Shrub-Niggurath" - For glaciesdraco, Omega Flowey.  
> Warnings: Body horror, existential horror

"Soup's up"

 

 

“Remind me to actually butcher the next one before it goes in the freezer,” Sans said, snipping fistfuls of hair away with the kitchen shears. “God, what a pain…”

 

Papyrus clucked at him, hunched over the stove. “You say that every time, and every time you’re too much of a lazybones to go to the trouble.” He tasted the broth, which was little more than hot water and a bit of stale herbs for seasoning. “Hmm. Needs something.”

 

“Like anything?” Sans chuckled. Setting down his cleaver, he plucked an eyeball free with a practiced twisting motion. “Here,” he said, tossing the morsel to his brother. “You look shaky.”

 

Dropping the spoon, Papyrus caught the eyeball in his cupped hands. “Oh, but I got the last one,” he protested, holding the eye up by the nerve. “It’s your turn.”

 

Sans shook his head. “Nah, that bit’s your favorite, isn’t it? Have it.” He went back to the task of dressing the head, always the most aggravating part– so much work for not much meat. “You’re not eating enough, bro. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

 

Papyrus didn’t argue, betraying how hungry he really was. He took his time with his food, as all monsters did, chewing slowly, relishing the pop-squish of the eyeball between his crooked teeth with a full body shiver.

 

“Better?”

 

Nodding, Papyrus accepted a somewhat mangled slice of meat from Sans and added it to the pot. “The storerooms are getting low again,” he said. A tremor jerked his head to the side, and a sporadic _‘nyeh heh heh’_ rip-sawed from his throat.

 

Sans watched his brother from the corner of his eye-socket, ready to help him if he went into one of his episodes. Maybe it was something about the meat. Maybe it did something to monsters, messed them up somehow. Maybe they shouldn’t be eating it, but it wasn’t like they had a lot of options anymore now that the Underground’s resources were nearly exhausted. He supposed the damage had already been done, in any case. Oddly enough, it was the stronger monsters that seemed to suffer the worst effects. Monsters like Papyrus.

 

“I know they are,” Sans said. “But you need to keep your strength up. You’re the one that has to deal with the lord high bitch.”

 

Another reason his bro was a goddamn champion. Not only did he go out of his way to make sure everyone had something to eat, but he kept the attention of their increasingly fruit-loops ruler off of the monsters too weak to handle her rages.

 

“Language, Sans,” Papyrus scolded, swaying unsteadily for a moment.

 

“Yeah, well, just calling it like I see it.”

 

Sans switched to a different knife, slicing through a cheek with little finesse and roughly dicing it. He’d meant to sharpen his knives yesterday. Or was it last week? It was so hard to keep track, like thoughts just floated up through his skylight and escaped.

 

“She’s doing the best she can.” Papyrus added the diced meat to simmer. “We should put the rest back, I think,” he said, nodding to the rest of the head on the cutting board.

 

And, as usual, the subject of Queen Undick was closed. Sans supposed there wasn’t much point talking about it, anyway. Instead, he gathered up the newspaper they used to wrap meat in. On a lark, he lifted the head up by what was left of its hair and worked its jaw with his other hand. “It was nice to _meat_ you, Papyrus!” he piped, in a bad imitation of the human’s voice. “But I’m losing my _head!_ ”

 

Papyrus groaned, but stole a wistful glance at the head as Sans wrapped it up. “You know, I was fond of that human,” he said, sighing.

 

Sans smiled to himself as he worked. “You get attached to everyone you feed, bro.”

 

“I know, but they were so close!” Papyrus stirred the makeshift soup listlessly. “One more puzzle would have done it. If they could have dodged those spikes just a little faster…”

 

“I don’t know why you gotta play with them first,” Sans said, shoving the head back in the freezer. All this thawing and freezing would ruin the flavor, such as it was, but they had to make the last big piece of meat they had last as long as possible. “Seems cruel, giving them false hope like that.”

 

“It’s not false hope,” Papyrus argued. “I can’t make the puzzles too easy, or I wouldn’t catch anyone.”

 

Sans drummed his fingertips on the counter. The scent of impending dinner was making him antsy. “So just grab 'em and gut 'em, like I do.”

 

Nothing wrong with the ol’ grab-and-gut. A guy had to conserve his energy, after all.

 

Papyrus frowned, twitching. “I just feel like I ought to give them a sporting chance.”

 

“I know, bro.” Sans reached up to pat Papyrus on the back. “It’s cool of you, really.” He admired how Papyrus had kept his sense of honor and fair play long after the rest of them had given up on anything beyond getting through the day and finding their next meal. What a star.

 

“One of my many outstanding qualities,” Papyrus said, grinning expansively. He ladled soup into bowls for both of them.

 

Sans transferred a few prime chunks of meat from his own bowl into his brother’s. “Don’t argue,” he said, cutting off Papyrus’ protests. “I’m just a shorty– I don’t need as much.”

 

Papyrus glared, but didn’t try to give the extra food back. It was a rare concession.

 

They ate in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, slurping the thin broth and fishing out bits of meat with their fingers. The meal was over faster than usual– after subsisting on bare scraps for the last several days it was hard to go slow. At least the warmth of the broth would trick them into feeling full for a while.

 

“I’ll have to check the puzzles again tomorrow,” Papyrus said, sucking an errant bit of fat from his fingers.

 

Sans nodded agreement. It wasn’t like they had anything better to do, and if anyone _had_ fallen down and broken their neck or wandered into one of the better puzzles it was best to get to them while they were still fresh.

 

“Wanna hear a Fluffy Bunny story before we turn in?” Sans offered.

 

Papyrus stood, reaching down to help Sans up with another reflexive laugh. “Can I have the one where he lets the townsfolk bake him into a quiche? I like that one.”

 

Sans smiled. “Of course, bro.”

 

 

 

"Bend"

 

 

They wouldn’t leave him alone. The thoughts.

 

After so many repetitions of the same events, so many trips around the wheel, Flowey was finding it more and more difficult to stay patient, to stay kind. To think of his friends as real, living people (they were like dolls, of a sort). The lack of emotions left him empty and dull, but even if he’d had his soul intact he suspected that this slow degradation of his better nature would have happened regardless. The problem wasn’t emotional numbness, not really.

 

It was boredom.

 

The same (asinine) conversations, the same (asinine) problems with the same (asinine) solutions. The same (asinine) endings. Endlessly. Forever. It was grating on him, flaying his sanity. Everyone was stuck on the loop.

 

Except him. He wasn’t stuck like they were. He could choose what he said and did, try different things. Have as many do-overs as he wanted, without price or penalty. (Why not?)

 

The realization that he really could do whatever he wanted was horrendous. He still knew right from wrong, though, even if he couldn’t feel emotions of guilt or shame. He could resist. (Why?)

 

And he did, for a long time. He kept his thoughts to himself as his friends and family played out the same stupid, selfish farce that passed for their lives over and over. There was literally nothing better to do (though there could be). By ignoring one or more of them on _this_ go-around, or leaving them to work out their own issues on _that_ go-around, he could eke out a modicum of variation. Nothing substantial. Nothing that didn’t whet his appetite further, lend volume to the voice whispering at the back of his mind that he could do anything ( _anything_ at all.) Anything he wanted.

 

He’d always suspected that he was a bad person, in the way anxious children often do. (Bad children get turned into flowers to atone for their sins.)

 

Bad or not, he still had self-control. He wouldn’t hurt anyone (not really.) Maybe he could just…censor himself less. Go off script. For the sake of his sanity, _something_ different had to happen. If he indulged a little, in a peaceful way, perhaps that would be enough of a change to make the thoughts stop. (Perhaps.)

 

Flowey decided to try being honest. He wasn’t out to torment anyone, of course. (Of course!) He was simply speaking his mind. It was like therapy, a sort of stream-of-consciousness mental bloodletting. Just a mild catharsis. It would help. (He couldn’t help himself.)

 

 _At the beginning, in the courtyard with all the happy yellow flowers._ “If you’d been smart or brave enough to use Chara’s soul yourself, Dad, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

 

 _Out in the Ruins, rustling amongst the fallen leaves._ “Wow, Mom. You sure do have all the answers figured out while you cower here in the ruins, huh?”

 

 _I_ _n a place that was bitter cold, where his number-one fan lived._ “You really are a total joke, did you realize? Funny– I guess the punchline is that everyone sees it but you.”

 

 _Farther along, where the damp and the mildew pervaded everything._ “Everyone thinks you’re so brave, but we know better, huh? You’re more afraid than anyone else down here.”

 

 _Outside the locked door of a house that was often walked by, but never entered._ “Change as much as you want, but you’re still just you. You’re still alone, and you deserve it.”

 

 _Down with a_ dear friend _where a deeper darkness waited like an open mouth._ “Are you ever gonna do it, or are you just gonna stare forever?”

 

It helped, a bit. In flat, twisting discomfort, Flowey watched the little dramas shift off their rails. It was something different. The thoughts eased, the voice faded to the softest murmur. (That wasn’t so bad.)

 

It wouldn’t last. Already the novelty was beginning to fade and the specter of escalation loomed on the horizon. But it _was_ on the horizon for now. And so despite the consequences to his dear friends (temporary consequences, harm that they wouldn’t recall (and so could it _really_ be considered harm at all?) and that he could _easily_ undo) he persisted. Persisting was all he could do, after all (forever). It was his thing. He might as well keep himself mentally whole. Right? (What good did it do to suffer? Surely his real pain was worse than any transient pain _they_ (the dolls) felt.)

 

Yes. He had himself under control, finally. (Worth it.)

 

The key was to know when to bend (just a bit more).

 

 

 

"All hall Shrub-Niggurath"

 

 

It hurt. Six souls ripped him apart and remade him, his vegetable form far too small for them all. Too limited. The pain was clear, clean. It cut through him sharp as ice water, woke him as from a long sleep.

 

New organs whose names and purpose were unknown erupted in thick coils. New limbs branched off in strange geometries. His body seethed, sickening the eye and mind with the subtle wrongness of its physics. Matter occupied space in an alien way. Time dilated around him when he moved, space bent to avoid him.

 

He watched himself split, distort, bloom. His well-worn apathy was crushed under horror, and disgust at his own grotesque ugliness, and fear. And underneath it all, joy.

 

He could feel it all!

 

He laughed with each odd mouth until he cried from each bulging eye, voice fuzzing static as if heard through a tinny loudspeaker. He screeched in pure excruciation and knew he must be near death. Nothing could live with this all-consuming power inside them, this roiling fire. Nothing should exist as he now existed.

 

He did not die. Nor could he say with certainty that he lived. He was too vast, too full of burning chill, of holy hellfire for the simple binary of dead or alive.

 

He _was._

 

Out past the borders of pain and hysteria, he could see the world. Not the world as he’d seen it while alive, or even as he’d known it with the power of Reset.

 

No. He could see the world, for the first time, as it truly was. Reality in it’s brutish, machine-logic strands. Finite and half-broken. He looked upon creation, loving it as a god loves.

 

It was all so silly. It was all so _small._

 

But it was all his, now. His world. As it should be. An ugly, imperfect god he might be, but he had the power he needed to bend this pitiful world to his will. His roots were planted deep in the source. He could rewrite it all, fix everything and everyone. His parents, all his friends…he would save them all, free them all. Even if he had to unmake them, start over from scratch, he would finish what he and Chara had started.

 

He looked down at the human, so very small now, so laughable. Their face twisted in nausea and terror. They would have run had they not been hemmed in on all sides by the coruscating tangles of his body. Trapped, they stumbled a fearful circle, shivering in mortal dread. They clutched their stolen knife like a talisman.

 

A swell of loving hate rose in him at the sight. They weren’t Chara, but they were still his precious playmate. His only friend, his dearest nemesis. They had freed him and brought his plans to fruition at long last. They were like him, and yet different. Weaker. They couldn’t see the way he could see, couldn’t manipulate the cells of the world.

 

All they were was human, and what was a human to a god?

 

He’d absorb soul number seven, and transcend even this form to true perfection. They would be together forever! Such would be their reward. The usurper served the true prince, at the end.

 

Oh, but first, _first_ …! First, the human would die, and die, and die, and die. And he would delight in death as he never had before. He had so much lost time to make up for.


	45. Papy-Longstocking and straight trollin' (Babybones, 2 random drabbles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "New neighbors" - For bedsafely, baby bones.   
> Warnings: kids living in less than ideal conditions...?
> 
> "That clears up everything" - For eternalglitch, who wanted a post-FINAGLC scene where Papyrus fully explains everything to Sans, Undyne, and Alphys.  
> Warnings: there was no stipulation about HOW the explanation happens...
> 
> "TEMstory" - For deltamaven, who wanted Temmies.  
> Warnings: hOI

"New neighbors"

 

 

With her groceries securely tucked in the crook of her elbow, Usagi turned from her normal route to trail behind the small skeleton. The two kids had recently turned up in town and weren’t often seen, but this was definitely the latest she’d seen one of them out alone.

 

What was a little kid doing wandering around town at this hour? She babysat kids older than they must be. They weren’t much bigger than her youngest siblings. It was worrying.

 

She was fairly certain that the child knew she was following them. Casting a furtive glance over their shoulder, they picked up their pace, trotting silently along the snowy street. They turned down a side street and Usagi followed. They turned again, trying to lose her, but she wouldn’t allow it. Snowdin wasn’t a dangerous place, but no town was totally safe, especially for a small child. Someone unsavory could decide that they might have something worth taking in their backpack, or some bored teens could start trouble.

 

Suddenly, the child stopped, turning on her. “Excuse me, miss,” they said. “Are you following me?”

 

“I…” Usagi shifted the groceries in her arms, taken aback. “Well, yes, to be honest.”

 

The child nodded, their suspicions confirmed. “Could you not? I’m trying to get home and you’re making it take longer.” With that, they continued on their way.

 

Usagi frowned, walking faster to catch up. “Why are you out here by yourself? Where are your parents?”

 

“Brother says I’m not supposed to talk to monsters I don’t know. Especially grown-ups,” the little skeleton said, unafraid but plainly annoyed. “Are you still following me, or are you just going the same direction?” They stopped again. “Because I can wait here until you’re gone.”

 

“My name is Usagi,” Usagi said, employing her best babysitter glare, ears laid flat. “I’m fourteen, and my family runs the inn. There, I’m not a grown-up, and I’m not a stranger.” She put her free paw on her hip. “And you’re too little to be out at night by yourself, so let me walk you home.”

 

For a minute, the child tried to stare her down, but it was a doomed effort. Usagi had yet to meet the kid who could withstand her glare.

 

“Okay, I guess.” The child scuffed their weathered snow boots in the slush. “But only to guard you. There’s people,” they said, as the pair got underway again, “that try to take your things, sometimes, and they’re not very nice. Ne'er-do-wells.”

 

Well, how chivalrous. “I feel safer already,” Usagi said, a grin tugging at her lips.

 

The house at the eastern edge of town had been empty for years. Not anymore, apparently. The door creaked on its hinges as the child pushed it open and led Usagi inside.

 

“SANS!” The child bellowed, and Usagi nearly dropped her shopping bag in her haste to cover her sensitive ears. “I’M HOOOME!”

 

Something rustled on the threadbare couch that was the only furniture in the main room. What Usagi assumed to be just a pile of blankets sat up to reveal another small skeleton. This one looked to be in poor health, stunted and brittle. It was hard to tell their age, other than they were younger than her.

 

“Hey, Papyrus,” they said, with a voice that was rough with sleep. “Back already?”

 

This must have been the brother the child had mentioned earlier. What was wrong with him? He didn’t look well at all.

 

Papyrus slung their backpack off and unzipped it, rummaging through it excitedly. “Yes, and I found everything on the list!” they said as they pulled out coils of wire, fuses in various sizes, and some odd hand tools. “I did a good job!”

 

“Heh. Of course you did, bro.” Sans looked up at Usagi, all warmth draining from his face. “Who’s this?”

 

Somehow, a sickly child half her size managed to intimidate her, just a bit.

 

“Oh, that’s Usagi,” Papyrus said offhandedly, arranging his scavenged spoils neatly on the floor. “She’s not a grown-up.”

 

“Your sibling, er,” Usagi corrected, “brother was kind enough to make sure no ne'er-do-wells took my shopping.” She looked around the nearly empty room. The house was in poor repair, but someone had been cleaning and fixing it up as best they could. “You two live here?”

 

Sans bristled. “Hey, we’ve been here for months and nobody said anything, so it’s _ours_ fair and square. No one’s even using-” He stopped, cut off by a bout of coughing.

 

Immediately, Papyrus leapt up. “I’ll get a cup of water,” he said, and dashed for the kitchen.

 

Usagi followed.

 

Papyrus scrambled up onto the counter to reach the cabinets. Once he’d found a cup, he hopped lightly back down and kicked an empty crate over in front of the sink to stand on so he could reach the tap.

 

They’d figured out how to turn the water on, anyway. And the furnace, as the house was a little too cool, but certainly not cold like it was outside. Apparently they were still working on the lights, but a battery-powered lantern provided enough light in the kitchen to see by.

 

“Your brother,” Usagi said, setting her shopping bag on the counter. “Is he sick?” She didn’t ask about parents again. Some topics needed sensitivity, and orphans were a common enough occurrence in the Underground. Still, didn’t they have any other relatives to take them in? Maybe not. How sad…

 

Papyrus stepped down off the crate, careful not to spill any water. “Sans has always been this way. He’s having a bad day, that’s all,” he said, marching back out to the main room.

 

Hmm.

 

Frowning, Usagi tried the stove burners. They worked, though they were electric and so she’d have to wait while they heated up. That was fine. While the stove coil was heating, she dug through her shopping bag for a few items. Then, she prowled through the dim kitchen until she got her paws on a pot, cutting board, and knife.

 

Papyrus wandered back into the kitchen, lured by the noise. “What are you doing?” he asked, peeking over the edge of the counter.

 

“Making soup,” Usagi said, chopping vegetables as best she could with the dull knife. She tossed them into the pot of water. It would be healthy but bland, since the kids didn’t have any seasonings that she could find. “Do you have any salt, or anything like that?”

 

Brow furrowed, Papyrus shook his head. “No. There’s some ketchup in the fridge, but it’s sort of crusty.”

 

Usagi shrugged. “Better than nothing,” she said, and fetched the bottle from the fridge. There wasn’t much in there, but she grabbed a couple hot cats to add to the soup as well.

 

The ketchup was indeed crusty, and exceedingly hard to get out of the bottle. Still, once it was mixed in it made the broth a nice reddish color. The soup looked a lot more like soup, rather than just veggies and hot cats floating in water.

 

Papyrus got bowls out, along with a box of somewhat stale crackers. He watched with barely-contained curiosity while Usagi ladled soup into each bowl.

 

“It’s probably not very tasty,” Usagi admitted, making sure both bowls had an even amount of hot cat slices and vegetables. “But it’s got vitamins and things.”

 

The little skeleton didn’t seem to care about that, more concerned with the fact that the third bowl was still empty. “Aren’t you having any?” he asked, pointing to the soup-less bowl. “You made it.”

 

“Um,” Usagi said, ears drooping as she tried to think of what to say. She didn’t want to take food from these kids, but she didn’t want to make Papyrus feel like she pitied him, either. Her parents were firm about that sort of thing. Pity wasn’t helpful.

 

“It’s okay,” she said, finally. “I had my supper already.”

 

That did the trick, and Papyrus carried a bowl out to his brother, stepping purposefully and not spilling a drop. Usagi trailed behind, carrying his bowl and the crackers.

 

Sans sat up at their approach, rubbing his eye sockets. “Hey, bro. You been busy in there?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Papyrus said, handing over the bowl. “I helped make soup!”

 

Well, if informing her of the existence of ketchup counted as helping… Usagi smiled and set Papyrus’ bowl on the floor, putting the box of crackers where both brothers could reach.

 

For several minutes, they ate in silence, wholly focused on their food. Had they eaten at all today? Usagi decided to accidentally forget her shopping bag when she left. She could go out again in the morning. Mom would understand.

 

“If you wanted,” Usagi said, hoping she wasn’t crossing over into pity again. “Our house is crowded, but it’s warm and clean, and my family is nice…” She wasn’t entirely sure where she was going with this, but felt she should make some kind of offer.

 

Sans set his bowl aside. “No,” he said, firmly. “We’re fine where we are.” He glanced at Papyrus, who was still happily slurping his soup, and his face softened. “Thanks for cooking, though.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Usagi said, and meant it. “Do you like cinnamon bunnies? My sister is a good baker– I could bring some by tomorrow for breakfast.”

 

Papyrus sat up straight. “Like a visit?” he said, and seemed more excited about that part than getting pastries.

 

Seeing the doubtful look creeping across Sans’ face, Usagi went on. “It’s just I’ve got this little transistor radio that stopped working recently, and it looks like you’re good with that sort of thing.” She nodded at the neat pile of fuses and wiring on the floor.

 

“Oh,” Sans said, relaxing. “Yeah, I’ll look at it. No problem.”

 

Usagi smiled. “Good! I hope you can fix it,” she said.

 

Really, she hoped he could, because now she’d have to break her radio when she got home.

 

Oh, well. No kids should have to fend entirely for themselves like this. No one ever said being a good neighbor was easy, right?

 

 

 

"That clears up everything"

 

 

Alphys had had her doubts, but interpretive dance really had been the perfect medium to get everything out into the open. She felt like she had a much better understanding of what had happened. Undyne had done a fantastic job on the piano, too, for all she insisted experimental jazz wasn’t her forte.

 

The local moldsmals were an inspired choice of backup dancers, though by Papyrus’ own cryptic admission they may have had their own baggage to process. Alphys was by no means an expert on moldsmal psychology, if they _had_ a psychology, but she’d take his word for it.

 

“Wowie,” Papyrus said, having changed out of his black leotard (the moldsmals were still wearing theirs– they’d mostly absorbed the fabric). “I’m glad to have all that off my chest. I feel much better now.”

 

Alphys dabbed at her eyes, jostling Sans, who was snoring and leaving a growing spot of drool on her shoulder. He’d dozed off a few minutes in, lulled by the dulcet strains of jazz and the fact that he was sitting still.

 

“G-good,” Alphys said. “That w-was brave of you to…to share.”

 

Undyne tapped her chin. “I still say it’s not too late to add in some pyrotechnics. Fire is therapeutic.”

 

Papyrus and Alphys considered this, while Sans muttered something about flying hot-cats in his sleep. A molsmal glurped in either agreement or refutation, no one could be sure.

 

 

 

"TEMstory"

 

 

Glorious history of Tem, transcribed from the Book of Tem, Chapter Tem, Verses 1-!!!!!11:

 

In teh beginning, dere wuz d4rkness. A darkk, d4rk3r y3tt dr4kk3R SOIenze place, lol! And den wuz said: let dere B Tem! And lo, dere wuz Tem, adn it wuz good.

 

Tem of 0ld, wuz made in img of goD. But :Bound1ess hubris uf monsterKINd contains teh seedz of its Pwn unDOIngs. Tem wuz 2 good, much good3r than sienze peeps plan. Tem makes Tem, who make Tem and Tem and Tem, and mORE Tem. So many! asl;dkfjasd!

 

Tem defeat dagron of GOld! Much teeth! Very sienze! Wow. Tem and Tem and zomg MOAR Tem kross burNinatingg waztelands. Ouchies! So heat! Tem com to co0l lands. Tem sayz un2 Tem “as;lkfjsd! Okies! We settle dis land nao, lol.”

 

Tem drive enemieS before Tem. Tem lay claoim to new homelandz as goDd’s chozen tems. Tem are frootful, multiply so many tems! Lulz XD Nao u kno.


	46. 2 AU bits and bobs (Underswap/fell, Storyshift)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wild card" - For marsgal27, Underswap!Sans and Underfell!Sans switch places...somehow. Maybe a wizard did it.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "For family" - For anon, a short with Storyshift!Chara.  
> Warnings: reference to suicidal thoughts, your daily reminder that the king killed six kids

"Wild card"

 

 

Papyrus wasn’t sure how many universes there were, but he vastly preferred the last alternate Sans he’d dealt with to this new one. So far, he’d been shoved down the stairs (and had been one quick short-cut away from cracking his skull wide open), threatened with a knife, been called every vile epithet in the book and some that were entirely new to him– and it was scarcely ten in the morning.

 

The really infuriating thing was that this Sans didn’t seem to be upset or even particularly angry. Vaguely homicidal hijinks were apparently his normal modus operandi. He was fishing for a specific reaction, too, judging by the way his antagonism was escalating. Papyrus couldn’t begin to guess what the ‘correct’ response was, but it wasn’t long before he needed a break.

 

Papyrus glared down into his coffee. He was certain he’d locked the door to the house from the outside, but the doppel-Sans slouched on the barstool next to him like he had every right in the world to be there. Obviously trying to get away for a few minutes to figure out a course of action had been wishful thinking.

 

“What?” Papyrus growled.

 

The other Sans sneered. “Now that’s closer to the tone I’m used to. Good job, sad sack. I knew you had it in you.”

 

“Don’t start anything in here.”

 

“I would never!” the Sans huffed in mock offense. He noticed Muffet, and eyed her across the bar. “Heh. Oh, tell me Grillbz is holed up in some dark hovel in Hotland,” he chortled, mostly to himself, “surrounded by thousands of-” He sat up straighter as Muffet walked over, grinning. “Hey, sweet thing.”

 

Muffet squinted a few eyes while she poured another cup of coffee. “Relation of yours, dearie?” she said, frowning at Papyrus.

 

The thought was enough to give him an ulcer, if such a thing were anatomically feasible. “Guess you could say that,” Papyrus said. “Unfortunately.”

 

Reaching a hand over to give Papyrus a sympathetic pat on the arm, Muffet set the cup and saucer down in front of the Sans. “Anything I can get you?”

 

No 'dearie.’ Muffet was big on manners. 'Sweet thing’ wouldn’t fly.

 

The other Sans, who either wasn’t picking up on Muffet’s chilliness or (more likely) didn’t care, leaned his elbows on the bar and rested his chin on one hand. “How 'bout some sugar for this coffee, sugar?”

 

Venom dripped from Muffet’s “Of course.” But she was a professional, and left to fetch the sugar.

 

“I think I get it,” the Sans said as he watched the barista go. “Everyone’s backwards here. That’s why the antisocial psycho is running a cafe, and you smell like an ashtray and look like a total slob, like…” He trailed off, frowning. “Huh. Well, that’s unflattering,” he said, making a point of straightening his coat.

 

Papyrus shrugged.

 

“So, your 'me’ must be the overbearing blowhard who’s barking orders at you day and night.” The Sans grinned. “Man, I’d love to see how that goes down.”

 

That was a worrying thought, now that it had been brought up. This incident wasn’t like the last one, where two universes’ worth of people had been thrown together on some kind of neutral territory. Sans was the only monster missing, as far as Papyrus could see. Logically, he must have taken this other Sans’ place. If everyone else in that universe were as much of a prick as this Sans was, his poor bro was probably having a rotten day.

 

Muffet returned, sugar packets in hand. She held them up high when the Sans reached for them. “Ten gold,” she said, smiling sweetly. Her fangs poked out over her lower lip.

 

The Sans blinked. “Heh, real cute,” he said. “Ten gold for sugar– that’s a riot, sweetheart.”

 

Muffet’s smile widened. “Ten gold _per packet_ ,” she said, and reached out a hand to pick up the cup and saucer as well. “And thirty for the coffee, of course. Cash.”

 

The Sans gaped at her. Papyrus nudged him with an elbow. “Take my advice,” he said, some of his good humor returning now that the irritating doppelganger had been put in his place. “Don’t even think about asking for credit. It offends her.”

 

Something about the way Muffet smiled or the soft 'fu fu fu’ of her chuckle seemed to transcend multiversal divides, and the Sans pulled fifty gold from one grubby pocket and placed it in one of Muffet’s free hands.

 

Muffet set down the cup and saucer and two sugar packets. “Enjoy, dearie,” Muffet said. With a wink to Papyrus, she pocketed the gold and left to attend her other customers.

 

“Stupid backwards world. Try to be nice,” the Sans grumbled, tearing a sugar packet open with his (weirdly sharp) teeth. “Try to pay someone a damn compliment…”

 

Papyrus’ amusement was tempered by concern. If Asshole Sans were unhappy here in 'backwards world’ where he was surrounded by normal, nice monsters, the real one must be miserable over there in Asshole Land where everyone was, presumably, a huge asshole.

 

At the very least, Asshole Papyrus better be keeping him safe…

 

 

 

 

 

Papyrus’ nerves were frazzled from end to end. It had been a trying morning, and he still couldn’t get his head around what exactly he was dealing with. Sans would have had it figured out by now, much as he hated to admit it to himself– but that was a large part of the problem, wasn’t it? Just where in the hell was the real Sans, and where had this maniacal imposter come from?

 

For that matter, what were 'junior jumbles’ and 'crosswords,’ and why had it been so important to denounce the former in favor of the latter, and who would waste ink on putting trivial puzzles in the newspaper?

 

He caught himself absently picking at the bandage the false Sans had stuck on the crack above his eye socket. It had cartoon mice and ducks on it, and Papyrus couldn’t for the life of him understand how it was supposed to help the wound heal or where the false Sans had found it.

 

The false Sans was disproportionately upset over the minor injury, in fact. And so, somehow, Papyrus found himself in Grillby’s loathsome bar, staring down a vanilla milkshake while the maniacal false Sans hummed to himself on spun in circles on the barstool next to him.

 

He hadn’t even known Grillby served milkshakes. Though, judging from Grillby’s baffled expression, _he_ hadn’t known, either. The false Sans had simply ordered one as though it were the most normal thing in the world, and Grillby had made one.

 

“You never mention your, ah, other relatives,” Grillby hissed, flinching when the false Sans gave him a friendly wave.

 

“Surprise visit.” Papyrus judged that it was wiser not to let on what he thought had actually happened. Not that he was at all sure about any of it. The morning had been a maelstrom of confusion and distress, and it had been all he could do to keep up with the living dervish of activity that had supplanted his brother.

 

The real Sans, wherever the bastard was, was probably having the time of his life. Papyrus’ only comfort, meanwhile, was watching everyone else in the bar shift from shock to puzzlement to abject terror.

 

The bar’s patrons were giving the two of them a wide berth, and no one said a word about the idiotic bandage. As much as Papyrus (and his ego) wanted to attribute that to his own fearsome reputation, he was well aware that all eyes were trained on the false Sans. No one made that much unwavering eye contact or smiled like that unless they were dangerous and powerful enough to get away with it– or completely, totally, off-the-wall _insane._

 

Or both.

 

“Gee whiz,” the false Sans said, voice ringing through the heavy hush of the bar. Glass shattered somewhere as someone dropped their drink. “You haven’t even tried your shake yet!” He sat up on his knees, reaching out to shove the glass closer to Papyrus. “Go on, you need the calcium. I gotta say, your brother’s not taking very good care of you. It’s a lucky thing I’m here now!”

 

No one laughed, or jeered, or approached the bar. Every last monster present simply watched, slack-jawed. Papyrus squirmed under the palpable weight of the crowd’s attention.

 

“I’m not…” Papyrus started, floundering under the false Sans’ wide-eyed gaze. He tried again, glaring and digging deep for what little machismo had survived the morning. “There’s _no way_ I’m…”

 

That damned _smile._ What was this maniac smiling about?

 

And why was Papyrus bothering to protest when he knew very well that he was going to drink the damned milkshake? He’d been resisting this madman for hours to no avail. There was no point in humiliating himself in front of witnesses.

 

Meekly, Papyrus took a sip of the milkshake. It was…pretty good, actually.

 

The false Sans’ smile grew wider, and Papyrus heard the door slam as someone finally broke down and fled for their lives.

 

“So, how much do we owe you?” the false Sans said, reaching into his pocket.

 

Grillby nearly ducked under the bar. As it was, he shivered with a weak crackle of flames, pinned by those bright, twinkling eyes. “Ah, n-no charge,” he stammered, hands raised in surrender. “On the house.”

 

“Wowie!” The false Sans turned to beam at Papyrus. “Folks sure are nice here, huh?”

 

 

 

"For family"

 

 

Chara fidgeted, reorganizing the stock under the counter of their chocolate stand yet again. Work wasn’t busy enough to distract them from the many preoccupations the new human’s arrival had introduced.

 

Lucky number seven.

 

As Chara should have been, and almost was. If Mom had shown up just a minute later, it would have been all over.

 

On the one hand, the monsters would have been free. A little twist of guilt started in Chara’s stomach to think they were part of the reason the barrier was still in place. On the other, Chara was happier as a part of Captain Toriel and Dr. Asgore’s family than they’d ever been, or could have ever hoped to be. Life was good, and they’d like to keep theirs.

 

Still, that left the new kid in a pretty rotten predicament. So far, they’d been nothing but chill, and Chara knew the look of someone who was dealing with some heavy stuff. Were they a magician, too? Chara doubted it, but had never found a natural time to ask. Either way, the kid hadn’t hurt anyone, and took Chara’s admonishments to be careful around the monsters to heart. Most importantly, they were nice to Asriel.

 

Their hand found its way to the pendant around their neck.

 

Sighing, Chara locked up the stand. Maybe a walk would settle their nerves.

 

With a few muttered syllables, they appeared in the Snowdin forest. The bracing chill woke them up after the heat of Hotland. They shivered once, hard, teeth chattering. Once the shudder passed, they were left feeling a little more clear-headed, as if they’d shaken off some of their anxiety. Savoring the crunch of snow underfoot, Chara walked, thinking of nothing in particular. After a while, they realized which direction they were heading in. Sighing, they spun on their heel.

 

That guy seemed pretty glum, lately. Chara didn’t want to add to that, which they would if they stopped to talk today. They muttered a few words, and reappeared in Waterfall. The old stomping grounds.

 

Maybe Mom was home. And if Mom was home, maybe Asriel was with her.

 

…Nah. Chara didn’t want to worry them with this weird mood, either. For a moment, they considered texting Dad, but decided against it on the same grounds. Chara wasn’t sure what their vague unease was, precisely. All they were sure about was that it wasn’t something to burden their family with. They’d untangle it on their own.

 

A few more words, and they appeared in a hall of cool marble. They weren’t sure what impulse brought them here on these rare explorations. Some latent death wish, maybe. Or a kind of fellow-feeling with the monster that haunted this place. Chara had never run into the king during their clandestine walks through the palace, which was undoubtedly a good thing. They couldn’t expect Mom to ride to the rescue a second time.

 

As if all that built up karma were cashing itself in at once, King Sans stepped into view around a massive pillar, moving silently.

 

Chara bit down a startled gasp, but the king was facing away from them and didn’t seem to notice their presence. The skeleton walked, and Chara found themself trailing behind, far enough back to go unheard.

 

The king passed into a courtyard dominated by an intricate gauntlet of puzzles, all deactivated and dilapidated. A simple, homey entryway stood at the far side of the space. Chara lingered in the shadows of the archway. The courtyard was open, with no cover save for the rusted spikes and rotted timbers rising from the floor. It had the feel of an arena, and it would be beyond foolish to follow any farther.

 

Sans halted in the courtyard’s center. Without turning, he said, “Was this wise?”

 

Words leapt to Chara’s lips too late. Their soul was grabbed, pulling their body along like a toy on a string as Sans reeled it in closer.

 

“Mom will know what you did!” Chara yelped, fumbling for a spell to defend themself with.

 

This had been a real dumb move. The realization that the new kid would be safe after all was cold comfort.

 

“Heh.” With a flick of his wrist, Sans let Chara go. “Kid, you’ve given me plenty of chances to take that soul of yours. I’ve honored my agreement with the captain more times than you know.”

 

Chara shuffled, ready to flee. Despite the king’s words, they knew better than to assume they were safe.

 

“And what brings you to my humble home, human?” Sans asked, still facing away as though Chara were no threat despite their species. Well, between a boss monster and a kid, even a magician, Chara supposed it wasn’t much of a contest. “If not to tempt fate and my patience?”

 

The answer to that question still eluded Chara. There was nothing good inside the palace. Just the king, and the clutter and mess of long, lonely years. “Mom’s right, you know,” they said, even as their better judgment urged them to be quiet. “There’s got to be some other way to bring down the barrier.”

 

If any statement could be better calculated to piss off the king, Chara couldn’t think of one. They waited, mouth dry, as Sans finally turned to face them.

 

The king’s face was the same bland mask Chara still saw in the occasional nightmare. The same easy smile that didn’t reach his eyes, that held no warmth. Not for Chara, anyway, or any other human. Sans shook his head, an abortive chuckle breaking the silence.

 

“So, where is it, then? This other way?” He gestured at the thousands of tons of rock far above. “If there were another option, brighter minds than yours or your mother’s, for that matter, would have found it before now. I didn’t start that collection for my health, buddy. It ain’t fun.”

 

“I know,” Chara said. They found themself gripping Rei’s pendent. Feeling stupid even as they said it, they added, “Thanks for not killing me.”

 

For an instant, the king’s left eye flashed, a bi-color swirl of magic. Half-remembered cautions against the eye of Balor, the evil eye, rose in Chara’s mind. “Sure, human,” Sans said, mild as ever. “No sweat.”

 

Chara sighed in unexpected relief, but the king went on.

 

“These last couple years have been unbearable with you living down here, you know that? With you just swanning around the Underground like you think you’re a monster yourself.” The light guttered, leaving the king’s face as empty as dead bone. “Letting my people love you like you have a right to it. And yet, every day you stay alive is another day of freedom you’ve kept from them. If you really cared about that cozy little family of yours, you’d know what to do about it. You’d bite the bullet.”

 

The words plucked at a deep, forgotten wound. Chara edged back a step, dropping their gaze. “They don’t want that.” The faceted glass of the pendent cut into their hand as they squeezed it.

 

“Oh, of course they don’t,” Sans said, the light rekindling in his eyes. “They’re good folks. They’d rather have it both ways. Freedom at no cost.” He shrugged. “But that’s not how it works, is it? Sometimes you gotta deal with reality even when it’s lousy.” Bitterness laced his words, and then faded away again.

 

“Lucky for you,” the king continued, “you may just get to have it both ways, after all. The way I hear it, you’re not the only game in town anymore.”

 

Chara stiffened. “You don’t have to.” They wondered briefly how far off the new kid was from New Home, if there was still time to change their mind.

 

“Heh.” Sans smirked, the expression hanging oddly melancholy on his features. “That’s where you’re dead wrong, kid.”

 

“They’re not hurting anybody. They just want to go back home.” Chara could see their words having no effect, adding, “They have a family,” with no idea whether that were even true. At the very least, the new kid had friends down here now. Asriel would be so crushed– how would Chara even begin to explain it to him?

 

Sans scoffed, weary but unmoved. “So do I,” he said. “A family and a kingdom, both of which I’m betraying every day I let you keep this.” He gave Chara’s soul a cursory tug, and let it go again. He turned and resumed his path to the door at the far side of the courtyard. “This will play out soon, one way or the other. It’s too late for anything else. Go home, kid.”

 

A sudden flare of anger seized Chara at the king’s dismissal. “You’re doing this for your family, then?”

 

The king paused. He stood for a moment, as though considering his answer. At last, he simply said, “Yes. I am.”

 

“Then why are you here all alone?”

 

The king cringed.

 

Yep, somewhere under the happiness and love, a death wish had to be lurking even now. Chara saw the terrible skull take shape in the air, saw the glow building as they finished the words that took them safely away.


	47. 4 with Undyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Spear-head" - For anon, Undyne training with Asgore. The subject of humans comes up.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "Dreams are weird" - For anon, Papyrus has a nightmare.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "Bed Wed Behead" - For xinostitches, Undyne and Papyrus fluff.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "By the power of cosplay" - For thisgirlikestoarty, Undyne takes her Ganondorf LARPing a little over the top.  
> Warnings: none

 

"Spear-head"

 

 

The royal salle resounded with the flash and sound of magic against metal.

 

“I’m not a little kid anymore.” Frustration boiled over as Undyne parried the king’s attack. “When are you gonna show me some real moves?”

 

Asgore frowned. “And what would these real moves be?”

 

“You know, the real heavy-hitting stuff, for when a human falls down!”

 

“And why,” Asgore said, face darkening, “do you wish to gain such skills?”

 

Undyne faltered. “What d'you mean, ‘why?'” Brow furrowed, she lunged, leaving herself open. “If I’m gonna be a guard, I gotta be able to take on a human, right?”

 

Asgore spun to bring the butt of his trident into her side. She stumbled under the blow.

 

He allowed her a moment to recover, then asked, “And why do you wish to do that?”

 

“So I can be as strong a warrior as you are!” What other reason was there? Why else did the Royal Guard exist, when you got down to it?

 

“Why?” Asgore asked again, pressing her back. “Do you seek glory? Do you hear tales of the war and long for it?” He advanced, trident moving with surprising agility.

 

Eyes darting in confusion and struggling to keep up with her parries, Undyne gave ground. She stumbled over a loose rock, but kept her footing.

 

“No,” she said, though the word rang false even in her own ears.

 

“Do you think yourself some noble hero, a paladin?” Flame gouted from Asgore’s mouth as he spoke, making the air dance in waves.

 

Undyne flinched back from the blistering heat. “No!”

 

“What, then?”

 

“My folks lived their whole lives without ever seeing the sky!” Undyne blurted.

 

Asgore stopped his advance, giving her space and breath to speak.

 

“They…” Panting, Undyne let her spear dissipate, bracing hands on knees as she caught her breath. “They spent their whole lives stuck down here. They deserved better.”

 

“Revenge, then?” Trident lowered to point at the ground, Asgore sighed. His shoulders sagged as though weighed down by all the rock looming far overhead.

 

“No.” Undyne crossed her arms, brow furrowing in consternation. “…I don’t know,” she said. “But we shouldn’t have to live like this! It’s not fair.”

 

“The world is not a fair place.”

 

“But you’re trying to free us! You’re collecting souls when they fall down!”

 

“Yes,” Asgore said, nodding. “ _I_ am.”

 

This again. Undyne shook her head, distraught. “That’s not fair, either! You shouldn’t have to do it all alone.” She darted forward, tackling the king in a hug. She didn’t want to have this fruitless argument _again._

 

He moved not an inch, but raised his free paw to settle over her skinny shoulders.

 

“It’s a task I took on willingly,” he said.

 

“But I can help,” Undyne insisted, blinking back tears of frustration. She pushed away, craning her neck to meet his gaze. “If you won’t teach me for your sake, what about everyone else? You can’t be everywhere at once.”

 

For the first time that she could remember, Asgore broke the stare first.

 

“You started training me so I could defend other monsters, right? What bigger threat is there than a human? I’m a guard now,” Undyne said, though she’d held the title for less than a month. “I’m not some punk kid you need to protect. Not anymore.”

 

“No,” he said, moving to the rack at the end of the room and putting up the trident. “I suppose you’re not.” He lingered by the rack, claws grazing the weapons it held.

 

Undyne trotted over to join him. “Is that a yes?” She tried not to look overeager. After years of chipping away at him, was she close?

 

Asgore leveled a stern glance at her. “It’s a maybe, and nothing more,” he said. He returned his attention to the weapons rack, selecting a wooden spear and handing it to Undyne. “Each of these weapons was forged by human hands,” he said, watching her as she hefted unfamiliar weight in a familiar shape.

 

“Really?” Undyne tested the tip of the spear against her fingertip and found it far sharper than expected. She snatched her hand back as though the spear had bitten her on purpose.

 

“That’s obsidian,” Asgore said, nodding at the spear-head. “There’s no sharper edge, though it’s brittle. And the shaft is oak.”

 

“Oak?”

 

The king smiled sadly. “A tree with wood far sturdier than the evergreens that grow in Snowdin. The humans used to hold them sacred, as much as they held anything sacred.”

 

Undyne felt along the smooth spots that had been worn into the shaft– where it’s previous owner had been accustomed to gripping it. A human’s hands had left those marks.

 

“They cannot wield magic, so they craft physical weapons to inflict physical wounds.” Asgore’s claws returned to the trident, tracing a scratch that marred one of the tines. “These are perilous objects. A great many monsters died upon that spear.”

 

Undyne nodded understanding, or at least an appearance of understanding. She wasn’t sure what the significance of this spear was, precisely, but it held a scent of history and malice. Her fingertip still throbbed where she’d pricked it, and the spear felt somehow heavier in her hands.

 

“I want you to keep it,” Asgore said. “Keep it somewhere that you will look on it every day.”

 

Nodding once more, Undyne said, “Okay.” She opened her mouth to ask a question, but the king anticipated her.

 

“That’s enough for today, I think,” he said, leading her from the salle. “Tomorrow, you may ask me anything you like, and I will answer. For today, you should think on what you care to learn, and why.”

 

“Okay,” Undyne repeated, clutching the human spear close. Her stomach flipped. Finally! Soon, Asgore would start her _real_ training. She could feel it.

 

…Why wasn’t she excited for it anymore?

 

 

 

"Dreams are weird"

 

 

“So,” Papyrus said, taking a sip of his coffee. “There I am, naked as a jaybird, only it doesn’t really matter because no one in the class has any eyes at all.”

 

Undyne poked at her frittata. “Gross,” she said, not sounding grossed out in the least. “Like, gouged out?”

 

Papyrus shook his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that! They’re just missing, like someone forgot to add them in and it’s all blank space. Which really makes me wonder,” he said, tapping his chin, “how everyone else was reading the test.”

 

“What’s the test about?”

 

“I have no idea,” Papyrus said. “It’s written in these weird symbols, and every time I think I’ve figured out the code some of my teeth fall out, which is very distracting. And then the time runs out,” he went on, frowning, “and I fail out of school, and Sans disowns me and I have to live in a box.”

 

“Huh,” Undyne said, pausing to take a hearty bite of her breakfast. “And it’s the same every night?” Crumbs sprayed in a fan-like shape as she spoke.

 

Without comment, Papyrus moved his coffee mug clear of the mist of egg and water sausage. “Every single night for a month now.” He drummed his fingertips on the table, frowning thoughtfully. “I wonder what it means?”

 

Undyne gulped, belching softly. “You brushing your teeth?”

 

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

 

“That’s all I got,” Undyne said, shrugging.

 

Papyrus shrugged, too, putting the nightmare aside. “Do you have any recurring dreams, Undyne?”

 

“Oh, my god!” Undyne slammed her fork on the table. “There’s this one,” she said, eye sparkling, “where I’m riding on the back of this huuuuge shark, right? And I’m just punching out ninjas right and left, like _pow!_ ”

 

“But nothing uncomfortable or scary?” Papyrus said, slightly crestfallen. And a bit jealous, too. That sounded like a far superior dream to have on a regular basis. “And no nudity?”

 

“Well,” Undyne said, cheeks coloring. “Sometimes Alphys is there.”

 

Papyrus grumbled wordlessly into his coffee as he took another drink.

 

 

 

"Bed Wed Behead"

 

 

“Okay,” Papyrus said, gazing up at the twinkling cavern ceiling. “Alphys, Mettaton, and…that girl that runs that fruit stand in New Home.”

 

Undyne snorted. “Which fruit stand? There’s like a zillion monsters in New Home, Paps.”

 

“The one we were at a few days ago.” Papyrus nudged Undyne with his elbow. “She kept laughing at everything you said.”

 

“Oh, right.” Undyne shrugged. “She’s not my type, but I guess bed the fruit stand girl, marry Alphys, and behead Mettaton for sure.”

 

“Rude.”

 

Undyne punched his arm. “Quit slipping gross options in there, then!”

 

Papyrus laughed. “Sorry, but no can do. When I play Bed Wed Behead, I play to win.”

 

“Alright then, smart guy,” Undyne said, grinning. “Then how about Alphys, King Asgore, and Gerson?”

 

“That’s not fair!” Papyrus sat up, glaring down at Undyne. “You’ll get mad at me no matter how I answer!”

 

Undyne plucked a blade of grass and held it in her mouth. “Nuh-uh.” She winked at him. “You just gotta think real careful. I thought you were playing to win.”

 

Papyrus groaned and settled in to think about his answer.

 

 

 

"By the power of cosplay"

 

 

Monsters, by and large, are people who need escape. Everyone does, of course, but monsters more than most. With much of their folklore lost and forgotten as yet another casualty of the war, they are left with whatever cultural remnants filter down to the Underground with the rest of humanity’s trash. Stories are a sort of currency unto themselves. Even if their bodies are forever trapped under earth and stone, in their minds the monsters can escape to countless seas, valleys, cities…

 

For reasons that are readily understood, villains tend to capture monster hearts and imaginations. One such villain holds a place in the rebuilt, patchwork pantheon of folk heroes. A human who can express himself with magic! Who allies himself with monsters of all kinds, and leads them bravely against the human oppressors! A human who, near the end of every tale he is in, transcends his own humanity to become a resplendent and beautiful boss monster! He’s a mythic figure, heavy with symbols of monsterkind’s deepest longings. Echoes of the Angel follow in his wake.

 

Each tale ends in tragedy, as human stories almost always do. The human-turned-monster is struck down, sealed away in an eternal prison. Cut off from the world. Such is the fate of monsters.

 

And yet, even as he is doomed to continuous failure at the hands of the humans’ champion, he always finds a way free of his imprisonment once more. Though it may take him years, centuries, he returns to the world. The monsters of that world, waiting patiently out of sight in dank caves and brambled woodlands, rejoice at his return. They love and are loyal to him, for he plainly loves them just as much.

 

They are stirring tales, and over the years monsters add to and alter his exploits. His cunning is celebrated, his prowess in battle is expounded upon. Now and again he and his monster legions are given a happy ending. One where they build a new land on the remains of the old human kingdom, one where humans must share the world with monsters equally– peacefully, for the Demon King watches over them all.

 

The Demon King also visits every schoolhouse in the Underground on prize-giving days. He hands out the prizes, praising each child on their hard work and accomplishments with a warrior king’s gravitas.

 

All but the youngest children know that it’s Captain Undyne in a costume, but that doesn’t make it any less grand. Everyone enjoys the Demon King’s visits, and Undyne plays him with conviction.

 

And so the children are delighted when he is sighted outside of school, on days that are not prize-giving days. He’ll be seen tending to his swords in Waterfall, or stalking through the snow in Snowdin. Now and then kids will spot him on the streets of New Home, walking proudly among his chosen people.

 

Some of the adults around Captain Undyne are a bit concerned about the time she spends on this play-acting. The children understand, however. The youngest flock around the Demon King, clamoring for their turn to be carried on his shoulders. The older children fall in line as battle-hardened ranks of warriors, or flee in rightful terror as vanquished humans.

 

There is magic in the stories. There is freedom in painted armor and recited lines. The children know this instinctively, and Undyne has relearned the art of escape. Together, they will free their families, their teachers and neighbors and friends. It will last only for a little while. Their bright new world exists only in their shared imagination.

 

But it is real.

 

 

 


	48. 3 shorts starring Frisk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Exactly what it says on the tin" - For anon, Frisk's reaction to Hotland. Spoilers: it's hot.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "Un-life of the party" - For bloodydragon117, someone invites Mettaton to rescue a boring birthday party.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "Mixed media" - For anon, the monsters help Frisk with a school art project themed around 'a different perspective.'  
> Warnings: none

"Exactly what it says on the tin"

 

 

Despite the heat and the fact that they’re wearing a sweater, Frisk isn’t sweaty. They wonder about this as their hair prickles up on end in a breeze that’s like blowback from a blast furnace. The mystery is solved when they stop at the water cooler that’s inexplicably humming away on one of the solid “islands” rising up above the caldera.

 

Though the water is cold in the cooler, as soon as it’s dispensed it starts to evaporate, visibly steaming. Frisk drinks quickly before it’s gone. They do the same with five more cups to replace the moisture that’s evaporating as fast as they’re sweating it out. Once they’ve drunk as much as they can, they set out again.

 

Frisk isn’t sure if their eyes are watering because of the extreme heat, or because of the stink. Hotland lives up to its name– it is _hot_ – but maybe it should be called Stinkland instead. Rotten Egg Land. It’s awful. Between the stench and a stomach full of water they’re more than a little queasy.

 

The thought occurs that some of the fumes coming off the magma could be toxic. It sure smells like it’s toxic. Frisk pulls the collar of their sweater up over their nose and mouth to use as a mask.

 

They pull their collar back down after only a few minutes. It’s not doing much to block the smell, and anything poisonous probably isn’t getting filtered out by some striped wool.

 

Ugh, it’s so hot. Why is it so hot?! Why would anyone live here?

 

Frisk thinks longingly of Waterfall, where they’ve just come from. Cool, wet, dark. No dry, stinging eyes or cotton-mouth or dehydration. Snowdin was even better! At the time, Frisk had cursed it for being too cold, shivering in completely snow-inappropriate attire. Snow! What they wouldn’t do for snow right now. They’d marry snow.

 

They suspect they’re starting to get sick. Should they press on, or try going back for more water? But that would leave them in the same place as before. Worse, even, because now they’re already hot and tired.

 

Better keep going. The lab’s not that far. They can see the building looming in the distance. That must be the lab. They hope it’s the lab.

 

They hope the lab is air conditioned…

 

 

 

"Un-life of the party"

 

 

Calling Mettaton had seemed like a good idea. While Frisk didn’t mind quiet get-togethers, Napstablook’s birthday party was a bit of a snooze-fest. They’d found Doggo curled up asleep in the coat closet, even. The atmosphere had definitely gotten livelier once the robot showed up.

 

There was something missing, though, and to Frisk’s embarrassment they didn’t realize what that was until Mettaton himself pointed it out.

 

“Darling, have you seen Blooky?” Mettaton asked, leaning down close to Frisk’s ear to be heard over the music.

 

Frisk shrugged, a guilty frown pulling at their mouth. When had Napstablook vanished? They hadn’t noticed. The ghost was always so unobtrusive, it was easy to forget they were in the room sometimes.

 

Mettaton huffed air through his exhaust vents. “Well, this won’t do! They’re the whole reason I’m here!”

 

Frisk offered to help him look, and the two split up to search the house. On a hunch, Frisk stepped outside. The air was cool, and it was blessedly quiet compared to the noise inside the house. A flicker at the edge of their vision made Frisk turn.

 

“I know you’re here. I don’t blame you for needing a break,” Frisk said. “But it’s kind of rude to leave your guests at your own party.”

 

As expected, Napstablook faded into view, with the look of someone who would be wringing their hands if they’d had any. “Oh. I’m sorry…”

 

Frisk sat down on the step. “Everyone’s wondering where you are,” they said, fibbing only slightly.

 

Napstablook wasn’t fooled. “I’m sure they’re all having a lot more fun with Mettaton than they were with me. The party was pretty lame until he showed up. I might as well just stay out of the way.”

 

“You’re incorporeal,” Frisk said, stumbling over the word. “You _can’t_ get in the way.”

 

“…Oh.”

 

The ghost made no move to go back inside.

 

Frisk crossed their arms. “You didn’t invite your own cousin to your birthday party,” they said, awkwardness crawling up their back. “I thought he’d just forgotten about it, but he sounded surprised and kind of hurt when I called him. Should I not have done that?” They were pretty sure the answer to that question was obvious, considering Napstablook had jumped ship.

 

Napstablook shimmered for a moment, as though they were considering running away. But that would be even more embarrassing then staying. They were getting a little braver these days. “Ah. I was wondering why he was here. No, it’s okay,” they said, fluttering half-heartedly. “It was probably wrong of me not to invite him. I figured he wouldn’t want to come.”

 

With that, Napstablook sank into a sulk.

 

Yikes.

 

“Is it because everyone’s paying attention to him and you’re getting ignored?” Frisk tried. “I know that would bug me, if it was my party.” And Mettaton was, well, _Mettaton._ He could get obnoxious like that.

 

Napstablook shook their head. “No, that’s never been a problem. I’m actually relieved that everyone’s enjoying themselves now, even if they’re ignoring me.” They sighed.

 

Frisk was at something of a loss. Of the limited experience they’d had with parties back before they’d climbed the mountain and…everything, the biggest source of drama was whether or not someone had peeked under the blindfold and won Pin The Tail On The Donkey under false pretenses. They were aware that they were out of their depth here.

 

“You know what’s cool about your family?” Frisk said, taking a different tack. “You’re all really different, but you support each other.”

 

Napstablook sank until they were approximately ‘sitting’ on the step by half-submerging into it. “You’re saying I’m not supportive,” they said, not really a question.

 

A person had to get up pretty early in the morning to get passive-aggression past Napstablook.

 

Frisk shrugged. “Maybe you’re a little hard on him? You talk about never getting to see him, or how he’s always busy, but then when he tries to spend time with you…” They gestured at their surroundings.

 

Napstablook went a little more transparent than usual. “I don’t know. I’m just being strange, I guess,” they said.

 

“It just doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, that’s all.” That much was the truth. Who would have thought parties were so complicated? Frisk had thought having Mettaton here would make Napstablook happy.

 

They wondered if Papyrus had a party manual they could borrow. He probably did.

 

“Well,” Frisk started, but they were interrupted when the door swung open.

 

“Oh, darling, I nearly hit you!” Mettaton stopped short before the door could smack into Frisk’s back. He noticed Napstablook slowly sinking into the step. “Oh.”

 

“Oh…” Napstablook echoed, looking about as lively as one of their snails.

 

Frisk stood, edging around Mettaton to get back inside. “I think I forgot something…” they muttered, but doubted anyone was listening. They slipped into the safety of the kitchen.

 

They were _not_ running away. Someone had to host the party while the cousins were outside.

 

Besides, Frisk figured they’d probably 'helped’ enough.

 

 

 

"Mixed media"

 

 

From this angle, Frisk had to admit that it looked like a completely different painting. Carefully, they dabbed a little more blue onto the canvas.

 

What else did it need? Papyrus’ macaroni shells formed a ‘dramatic juxtaposition’ (in his own words) with Alphys’ carefully applied screen-tones. The place where Sans had knocked over his drink formed a nice gradient effect in the background. Mettaton had contributed enough glitter and sequins that the canvas could probably be seen from space. Asgore had added a few pressed flowers around the border. And the gash Flowey had put in it (that Toriel had patched up) gave the picture a sort of antique quality. Napstablook had even composed a song and loaned Frisk a tape player, for the full art-installation experience.

 

All in all, it was pretty good! Frisk hoped they got a decent grade for it, but if they didn’t it just went to show how little modern art was appreciated in its time.

 

One last dab of paint, and they judged the piece complete. That, and they were getting really light-headed. Reaching up to their ankles, they tapped Undyne’s hands, signaling to be put down.

 

“Done, kid?”

 

It felt weird to nod upside-down.

 

With a flick of her wrists, Undyne tossed Frisk into the air, catching them easily. Frisk staggered a bit as she set them on their feet. The world spun for a few seconds, but soon enough they were steady again. They admired their finished painting while the red faded from their face.

 

“You can’t get any more different perspective than that,” Undyne said, dusting her hands off on her jeans. “They gotta give you an A now.”

 

Frisk nodded their agreement. It was a technicality, but a valid one.

 

Undyne clapped them on the back, sending them stumbling forward. “I gotta say, though, we all look great!” She made a serious art-appreciating face. “Portraiture is a dying discipline, you know? But this, I like.”

 

Frisk smiled, and looked with pride at their family portrait. They liked it, too.


	49. 3 shorts about Sans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Clock-watching" - For anon, literally anything with depressed Sans.  
> Warnings: depression lol
> 
> "Has-been" - For loveinthebones, Royal Guard Sans + admiring lil bro + angst.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "What kind of dog is that?" - For itzzgaming, Undyne catching sight of Sans' blasters.  
> Warnings: none

"Clock-watching"

 

 

Sans wakes up tired. He dozes for an hour or two until it’s clear he’s not getting any more rest. The mattress is old, but even if it had been the finest goose-down instead of creaking springs and musty polyester his back would be just as stiff and his joints would be just as sore.

 

The particular odor of burnt tomato paste wafts under the door. His brother is already up. Papyrus is always already up, and Sans spares a second to feel mildly jealous that he needs so little sleep. That he’s functional.

 

Rolling onto the floor, Sans stares thoughtfully at the miscellaneous crunchies in the carpet. Some of them are crumbs from midnight snacks of yore, some he’s not sure about.

 

“Saaaans!” Sans’ bedroom is directly above the kitchen; Papyrus has heard the thump. “Breakfast!”

 

“Be right down!”

 

Before he can go downstairs, the first order of business is to stand up. Palms down, push. Up on knees, then feet. Stand up. He’s ready for a nap by the time he’s upright, but he has shit to do. Sort of.

 

Breakfast first. He takes a shortcut to his place at the table, and ends up tripping over the chair.

 

Papyrus rolls his eyes as he sets their plates down. “Surely the stairs aren’t so difficult.”

 

“Eh,” Sans says, with a shrug. “I wasn’t _inclined_ to walk down today.” He twirls spaghetti onto his fork. He can’t remember eating anything but spaghetti (and burgers, of course) since Papyrus started his cooking lessons, but that’s okay. Eating stopped being anything other than a maintenance activity a long time ago.

 

The sauce tastes burnt. That’s probably his fault for taking so long to get up. He eats without complaint.

 

“You wouldn’t be so tired all the time if you’d get some exercise,” Papyrus says, peevish. “You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

 

Sans grunts in acknowledgment, and they finish the meal in relative silence.  

 

His sentry station is as quiet as ever. He’s not sure how long his morning nap is, but his neck needs popping when he wakes up. 

 

Remembering the notes in his pocket, he shortcuts to his lab. Once he’s added the notes to the relevant binder, he spends a few minutes wandering the room. He flips listlessly through notes and readouts, not really reading anything. Picking up a dry erase marker, he adds a couple calculations to the tangled mass of formulas on his whiteboard.

 

After a minute’s worth of staring, he erases what he’s written. Useless.

 

It feels like lunchtime. Grillby’s regulars are already holding down their barstools by now, and as Sans picks at a burger and a shot of fire whiskey he makes the usual pleasant, brainless conversation. It’s nice enough. He’s not totally sure what he’s chatting about.

 

At the appointed time, Papyrus comes to collect him and get him moving again. They go through their “lazybones” routine on their way out.

 

The hot cat stand isn’t dead, but it’s not busy either. Oddly enough, water-sausage-inna-bun isn’t inspiring a lot of return business. Maybe if he advertises them as a vegan alternative…?

 

Sans wakes up from his afternoon nap to find a small pile of gold coins on the counter beside him, and four hot cats missing from the cart. Huh. Maybe he should retool the stand into a self-service hot cat vending machine. Vegan wave of the future: do-it-yourself hot cats!

 

Nah, too much work.

 

Dinner is always a dilemma between going home and going back to Grillby’s. Grillby’s is noisy and busy and has drinks in it. Sans can tune out, can joke around with the guys or be ignored as he pleases.

 

This time, he goes home. Papyrus has made spaghetti again, but it’s all the same to Sans. While they eat, Papyrus gives him the blow-by-blow account of his exciting day patrolling for humans. Total humans found come to zero, but his brother has come up with no less than three new puzzles to build. Sans tries his best to listen but finds his attention wandering to nothing in particular.

 

Papyrus asks him a question.

 

“Hmm?”

 

Papyrus frowns. “Sans, are you alright? I don’t think you’ve said five words all day.”

 

“Sure I have,” Sans says. “I said eight words before we were even done with breakfast. I’m fine.” He shrugs.

 

Papyrus can’t argue with the math, and continues his story. Sans makes more of an effort to nod along and make interjections at the right times.

 

It feels like he ought to have a lot weighing on his mind, but he doesn’t really. His brain is full of non-thoughts. Mental dark matter.

 

They clean up, Papyrus washing the dishes and Sans drying. Sans studies the patterns in the counter-top, strange shapes and faces emerging from the formica. His arm shoves the towel along the plates mechanically.

 

After that, it’s time to read– on offer tonight is a battered edition of RPM Magazine. For the first time all day, Sans feels properly awake, the fog lifting slightly. Papyrus is the car expert between them, and it’s nice to hear him comment on the articles with his characteristic enthusiasm.

 

The feeling only lasts as long as the magazine does. Once Papyrus goes up to bed the fog rolls in again.

 

Sans attempts to watch TV. He knows he’s watching MTT Late Night, but nothing sticks in his head. It’s just moving colors and noise. Laying on the couch with that damn spring jabbing into his side, he flips through every channel. It doesn’t take long to make a full round. He catches himself watching a test pattern, the single, droning note filling his skull.

 

He turns off the TV.

 

Is he sad? No. Is he worried about something? He’s not sure. Probably not.

 

Just one of those days. Again. They’re really piling up. Sans can’t remember much of what he did today. Possibly because he didn’t do much of anything. And now it’s late. Had there been something he’d wanted to do? What was it?

 

The aimless guilt buzzing around his head like a swarm of flies is kind of annoying. What had he wanted to do? What is he neglecting?

 

Other than pretty much everything…

 

Whatever. Might as well turn in. With no one to nag him about the stairs, there’s no reason to walk up to his room, so he takes a shortcut. He flops down on the mattress and it feels like he never left. His hips and shoulders and neck are already twinging. He rolls onto his side, but there’s no way to get comfortable, not really. The mattress isn’t the problem, it’s all him.

 

Oh, well.

 

Nothing left to do but stare at the wall and wait to fall asleep.

 

Another day in the books. Whoo.

 

Maybe tomorrow.

 

Yeah.

 

 

 

"Has-been"

 

 

He comes to the conclusion that it isn’t worth working toward when he never gets to keep it (like so many other things), but there are reminders of the job he used to have. Here and there are traces of what was (and has never been)– part of the fractured and fallible memory of the world.

 

Lesser Dog has a sore where the edge of an armor plate chafed, and Sans ~~knows how annoying that can be and~~ suggests a remedy.

 

Undyne catches him sleeping at his station, and the sound of her voice triggers him to snap off a salute that sentries aren’t required to give. (She finds it funny, but she still yells at him.)

 

Now and then, the Dogi address him as “sir.”

 

Papyrus has his mind set on getting into the Royal Guard ~~like his~~ ~~cool~~ ~~brother~~ , and Sans supports this (he’s looking forward to working together).

 

Wait.

 

No, he isn’t. Because he’s not (Sergeant-at-Arms Sans of the Royal Guard), and wasn’t, and won’t be.

 

It’s just one more dropped stitch in the fabric of reality, and he keeps snagging on it.

 

 

 

"What kind of dog is that?"

 

 

At Undyne’s excited yell, the giant skull vanished. Was that thing an attack? She’d assumed it was a cool pet!

 

“Hey, Sans!”

 

As she drew near, Sans turned to face her, looking oddly guilty. Like he was trying to hide something from view that wasn’t even there. “Oh, hey, Undyne,” he said, voice casual save for being half an octave higher than usual. “What’s up?”

 

“What was that attack?” Undyne blurted, too consumed with curiosity to bother with any small talk.

 

“Attack?” Sans put one arm out to lean against a tree trunk. It was a couple inches farther away than he expected, and he stumbled momentarily before regaining his chill. He grinned. “What attack?”

 

“What do you mean, ‘what attack’?” Undyne had to see that thing again or she would literally explode. “That big laser skull you made!” To illustrate, she held her hands out in a gesture somewhere between the Kamehameha wave and chompy teeth.

 

Sans’ grin wilted. “Oh,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Saw that, didja?”

 

Undyne nodded furiously. “Yeah! I didn’t get a good look, though. Bring it back?” She clasped her hands and worked up her best puppy-dog eyes. Or, well…eye.

 

After a long stare-down, Sans sighed. “I guess you already saw it, so…”

 

He raised one hand, and Undyne felt a soft billow of magic before the rad laser skull reformed above them. It looked even radder up close! Long snout, big teeth, gnarly horns…!

 

“That,” Undyne said, smiling fin to fin, “is so badass! I didn’t know you could do this!”

 

Sans rubbed the back of his head, gaze downcast. “Yeah, well, I’d rather you didn’t go spreading it around,” he said. “It’s kinda…I dunno, embarrassing.”

 

Embarrassing? What could be embarrassing about being able to make laser cannons that looked like death metal album covers at will? “Man, if I could do that,” Undyne said, pointing up at the skull, “I’d never stop doing it.”

 

Something else occurred to her, very nearly as amazing as the skull attack. “You’re out here training,” she said, the concept ringing foreign in her ears. Sans. Training.

 

“What?” Sans coughed dismissively. “No way– you know me. I’m just goofing off. You know, loafing around.” He shrugged.

 

“Pfft!” Blasting trees with magic might have been Undyne’s idea of a lazy afternoon, but no way did it fit Sans. “Whatever. I won’t tell anyone I caught you working hard.”

 

Sans nodded, relaxing. “Heh. I do have a reputation to uphold, y'know.”


	50. 3 last FINAGLC shorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Applied quantum physics" - For anon, post-FINAGLC Sans laying the whole teleportation thing out for Papyrus. It was weird to get two prompts that were nearly identical! But I like the idea, so it's all good.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "Sleepover!!!" - For anon, who wondered what a FINAGLC pacifist ending might be like.  
> Warnings: sad goatdad is sad
> 
> "Learn something" - For psycho4sans (<3!!!), who beta'd FINAGLC! Sans' mental state at the close of the story.  
> Warnings: depression, self-loathing...the usual shit you've come to expect from FINAGLC, lulz

"Applied quantum physics"

 

 

“Now,” Sans said, gripping his brother’s hand. “You just gotta think about where you wanna go, right? It’s not something you need to overthink, or anything.”

 

Papyrus begged to differ. As much as Sans had taught him about this, he couldn’t really accept that it was something he’d be able to do himself. The mathematics of it had gone straight over his head. After half a dozen different attempts to help him understand even Sans had given up on that aspect, claiming that Papyrus had always been a more intuitive learner, anyway.

 

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea, Sans.”

 

“Nothing bad’s gonna happen.” Sans grinned. “I’ll be right here, I’m not gonna let you get stuck or anything. Just do it like I showed you.”

 

Right. That was far easier said than done. Eyes screwed up tight, Papyrus concentrated, trying to find the seams Sans had shown him. Was that it?

 

No.

 

Was  _that_ it?

 

“You’re thinking too hard, bro. Relax,” Sans said, scattering his focus. “It doesn’t take that much effort. I mean, _I_ do it. Heh.”

 

“Fine,” Papyrus grumbled. “I’m relaxed.”

 

Sans chuckled. “Yeah? You’re squeezing my hand pretty hard.”

 

Irritation flash-boiled to embarrassment. “Oh,” Papyrus said, forcing himself to loosen his grip.

 

“If you’re not comfortable, we can stop.”

 

Papyrus wasn’t comfortable with this, honestly. On the other hand, he knew Sans wouldn’t let anything bad happen. He also knew he hadn’t seen his brother so engaged with anything in a long time. “No,” he said. “I’m fine. I’d like to try.”

 

Sans shrugged. “Take your time, then.”

 

After a solid five minutes of trying, Papyrus wondered how long this was supposed to take. Sans hadn’t said anything more, just stood quietly at his side. Was he getting impatient? Was he disappointed?

 

Papyrus really didn’t like being bad at things. Especially things Sans found important.

 

He tried sidling up casually to the seam. Or maybe reverse psychology was the way to go. Why, he didn’t even _want_ to thumb his metaphorical nose at the laws of physics! Teleportation, how quaint! No one who was anyone was doing that sort of thing these days.

 

They were still in the living room. Drat.

 

Okay. What if he managed to trick himself into thinking he was already at his destination. He wasn’t trying to go far, after all– only outside their own front door. He could see the spot he was aiming for from the window!

 

…Right. He was definitely standing in snow, not on the carpet. And it was cold, and the TV was muffled through the glass of the window, and…

 

They hadn’t moved an inch. Nothing felt different at all!

 

“I give up,” Papyrus snapped, annoyance overriding his desire to make Sans happy. “This is ridiculous!” He took a step toward the door. “Why, it would only take a few seconds to _walk-_ ”

 

The world rearranged itself with a lurch, and they were out in the snow.

 

“Outside?” Papyrus finished, shaken.

 

At his side, Sans smiled. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

 

Papyrus looked around them, and back at the door. Had he missed something? “But I didn’t…”

 

“That was all you, bro,” Sans said, patting him on the back. “I didn’t do a thing.”

 

“I wasn’t even trying to do it then!”

 

Sans grinned. “Like I said, it’s easy.”

 

A glow of pride started somewhere in his ribcage, despite Papyrus’ efforts to squash it. “I suppose it wasn’t so hard,” he conceded. “As long as there’s no more quantum physics lessons.”

 

The grin got wider. “I make no promises, bro.”

 

 

 

"Sleepover!!!"

 

 

The king ducked low under the doorframe, his horns still leaving faint score marks on the wood as he stepped inside.

 

“Thank you again for your offer.” Asgore set a surprisingly small duffel bag next to the couch and straightened to his full height. “What a lovely home,” he remarked, glancing around the main room, and up, where his horns were nowhere near scraping anything. “Vaulted ceilings, how nice.”

 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Papyrus said, feeling awkward. When he’d seen how stressed and unhappy the king had looked during their last monthly report, he’d extended an invitation to stay in Snowdin for a few days, not thinking there was any chance that Asgore would take him up on the offer.

 

Two days ago, the king had sent word that he would be delighted to visit, and Papyrus had spent the entire time deep-cleaning the house from top to bottom. Everything down to the pet rock was polished to a mirror shine. He’d even caved and picked up Sans’ sock and its train of sticky notes (and Sans could look forward to the appropriate retribution later, for sure).

 

Sans, for his part, was awake and on his feet, which was as much trouble as he would go to as a host.

 

“Relax, bro. We’re off duty.” Sans wandered off toward the kitchen. “You want a beer?” he called over his shoulder to the king.

 

Asgore stammered something to the effect of not wanting to impose, but Sans came back with three bottles anyway. The brothers let their guest sit on the couch, dragging the two dining chairs over for themselves.

 

“So,” Sans said, already picking at his bottle label. “Things still haven’t calmed down at the castle?”

 

“I suspect this is as calm as it’s going to get, unfortunately.” Asgore shifted, and the couch creaked ominously.

 

Maybe that damned spring would get smashed down for good.

 

“The human is settling in alright?” Papyrus asked, at a loss for appropriate small talk.

 

Asgore nodded, taking a polite sip of beer. He could probably drain the bottle in one pull if he wanted to. “They seem content. They’re so quiet, it’s difficult to tell sometimes.” He sighed. “That’s actually what made me decide to accept your invitation. They’ve been keeping the peace since my…since the queen returned. I’m sure it’s tiring.”

 

Sans’ phone went off. He fished it out of his pocket as he stood. “Ah,” he said, checking the screen. “I should take this outside. T probably just wants to know if you got here okay.”

 

Asgore made a noncommittal noise, and Sans excused himself. Once the door latched, Asgore looked back to Papyrus. “I apologize if I’m poor company,” he said. “It’s been difficult, all of this business with the child, and…well. I’m quite drained.”

 

Noticing himself fidgeting with his own bottle, Papyrus stilled his hands. “That’s fine. You’re here to rest, after all.” He sat up as he remembered the phone call he’d made to Undyne earlier that morning. “I invited Captain Undyne and Dr. Alphys over for dinner tomorrow, but if you’re not up to it I’m sure they’d understand.”

 

“No, no,” Asgore said, waving off the suggestion. “I would enjoy seeing both of them. Hopefully I’ll have perked up a bit by then.” He smiled doubtfully.

 

The queen was keeping Sans on the phone for ages, or maybe it just _felt_ like ages. Glancing at the door, Papyrus crossed, uncrossed, and re-crossed his legs. There had been a time, long ago, when he could keep a conversation going.

 

“So,” he said, not wanting to ask but knowing he ought to, “how are you?”

 

The king shrugged helplessly, and leaned back. The couch protested, but held him. “I don’t want to make things uncomfortable,” he said, gesturing to the door, beyond which Sans’ voice was audible and indistinct. “It’s difficult to live with someone who despises you. Up until now I’d have given anything if it meant she’d come back.” He took another swig of beer, steadying himself. “And now, I must confess I’d give anything for her to be away again. But the Ruins are no place for a child. Or her, truthfully.”

 

Papyrus had no idea how to respond to that. He wished Sans was here, but then he suspected Asgore wouldn’t say much about the queen while his brother was in the room. He nodded, hoping that was enough.

 

As if on cue, the door opened and Sans shuffled back inside, tracking snow. “Okay,” he sighed, switching his phone off and setting it on the table. “I’m officially unreachable for the rest of the day. Don’t worry,” he said, grinning at the king. “Mostly she just wanted to know if the kid could come down over the weekend. Hope that’s okay, ‘cause I already said yes.”

 

Asgore nodded. “Of course.”

 

At this rate, they were going to have to build an addition onto the house.

 

“My being here isn’t going to cause…” Asgore looked from Sans to the phone, “ _problems_ , is it?”

 

Sans shook his head. “We don’t really have a snail in this race. I think she gets that.”

 

Papyrus nodded agreement. Whatever bad blood there was between the king and queen was none of their business. And it was high time they changed the subject.

 

“So,” he said, “as nice as Snowdin is, there isn’t really much to do. The library is just down the road, and you’re welcome to my books, and…” Papyrus racked his brains for anything else. Compared to a city like New Home, Snowdin was dull as dirt. He hoped the king wouldn’t be too bored while he was here. “The woods are pretty? We could walk later, if you feel like it.”

 

Sans snorted. “Careful,” he cautioned the king. “You’ll end up getting dragged to every puzzle in the forest so he can 'check’ on them.”

 

“Well, it’s been humid lately,” Papyrus grumbled. “They ice over.” He noticed himself fidgeting with his beer bottle again. He also noticed it was empty. Hmm. That had gone fast.

 

“So let Doggo take care of it. That’s not your job anymore.”

 

Asgore cleared his throat. “A walk sounds very pleasant,” he said, catching the hint of tension and snuffing it out. “In an hour or two, perhaps?”

 

“Yes,” Papyrus said, smiling. “You should rest first.” He personally didn’t find traveling that tiring, but most people seemed to.

 

“On that note, we’d offer you a bed, but, uh, I don’t think you’d fit either of 'em.” Sans shrugged. “So it’s the couch or the floor.” He studied the king and the couch for a moment, doing a mental calculation. “Probably the floor. Sorry.”

 

Papyrus gestured to the heap of spare pillows and blankets he’d stacked in the corner. “We didn’t think about it until today. If it’s any consolation, the floor is more comfortable than the couch.” With any luck Asgore would end up breaking the wretched thing. It would at least give them a reason to scavenge a different one.

 

“I’m sure the floor will be fine,” Asgore said, graciously. “As far as sleeping arrangements go, I’ve had much worse than a living room rug. With my back the way it is I prefer a firm bed, anyway.”

 

Well, so far the king was an easier house guest than Papyrus had expected, not that the king seemed like a very fussy person to begin with. And tomorrow he’d have Undyne and Alphys here, and surely that would make the atmosphere more relaxed. And the human would no doubt take up all of Asgore’s attention while there were here.

 

Yes. This would be okay. Like a sleepover, but with adults.

 

“Honestly,” the king said, draining the last of his beer. “I’d sleep in the shed if I had to. I feel a bit better already.”

 

Sans grinned. “That’s the spirit. Here.” He handed Asgore another bottle. “You need a guys’ night.”

 

When had he even gotten more beer? Surely he hadn’t used a short-cut for something as trivial as going from the living room to the fridge! Papyrus glared at the bottle his brother held out to him. “It is eleven in the morning.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s _guys_ _’_ eleven in the morning.” Sans poked at Papyrus’ arm with the end of the bottle.

 

It didn’t take long for Papyrus to break down and snatch the bottle from him. “Fine,” he snapped. “But don’t come crying to me when you have a headache tomorrow.”

 

The king chuckled. It was the first hint of a good mood Papyrus had seen from him since the human’s arrival.

 

Well, if an irresponsible bout of day-drinking cheered him up, Papyrus supposed that was alright. They weren’t just going to sit around moping, though.

 

“I’m not entirely sure what beer pong is,” he announced, getting up to fetch some cups. He knew there were cups involved. “But I’m certain I would win.”

 

Asgore stood, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “I have no idea what that is, but, by golly, I accept the challenge.”

 

Sans didn’t leave his chair. Nevertheless, his phone was back in his hand, camera at the ready. “Oh, man. This oughta be good.”

 

 

 

"Learn something"

 

 

_Don’t wallow. It doesn’t matter. You won’t learn anything from this, anyway._

 

It’s no use.

 

He’s sick. Literally, physically sick. If apathy kept him lethargic and sleepy, this anger is a fever.

 

A constant, burning pressure settles behind his eye socket, blurring both vision and thought with migraine-static.

 

Magic simmers inside him, and despite his impeccable control he can’t quell it. It’s not the sudden flare at an unexpected noise or movement that leaves Papyrus dizzy and shaking. It’s a steady drip. What strength he has boils slowly away, useless.

 

If the mysterious threat that his magic insists is around the next corner ever shows itself, he’ll be too tired to do a damn thing about it.

 

It’s no use. He’s no use. Wasn’t then, and isn’t now.

 

He doesn’t know what to do.

 

He hates that goddamn grinning, sadistic _thing._ It hurt his brother, for reasons he doesn’t care about. There couldn’t possibly be an explanation that would satisfy him. Not for the torment it put Papyrus through. 

 

Papyrus, of all the monsters it could have chosen.

 

It’s not enough that it’s dead. It wasn’t _sorry_ before it died.  

 

He hates himself for not figuring out what was going on until it was almost too late. For being too wrapped up in self-pity and his usual bullshit to use his brain. He wants to shove some of that loathing onto Undyne, and Alphys, and everyone else who stood by watching Papyrus sink. He knows that’s irrational, unfair. How could he expect any of them to succeed where he’d failed so utterly? If _anyone_ should have been able to see through to the truth, it was him.

 

Not that Papyrus had made it easy. That really gets him twisted in knots– knowing how much sooner it might have been over, how much damage and hurt might have been prevented if his brother had just told him the truth. Hell, even a _hint_ …

 

But no. Once Papyrus decides on something, that’s it. 

 

And he’d decided that he couldn’t count on anyone to help him. That he had to endure that hell alone.

 

He would have died.

 

It’s nauseating, the thought of how the whole nightmare had nearly ended. Nothing and no one was worth that, no matter what his brother thought.

 

Why hadn’t Papyrus trusted him?

 

_Like you have a right to ask that question. When did you ever make him believe he could rely on you? You can’t even step up now._

 

And maybe that’s the worst thing. As wound-up and miserable as he is, he knows, deep down, that it won’t last. It might take weeks, or even months, but he’ll flatten out. He’ll cool down, while his brother loses sleep and jumps at shadows.

 

Peaceful as a boat resting at the bottom of the river, he’ll be back on an even keel.

 

Papyrus will never be the same again.

 

_No. You have to try this time._

 

He is awake. Sick, but awake. He has to fight the urge to go back to sleepwalking, to let himself go numb and gray again. If he can’t do it for his own sake (and obviously he can’t), then he has to do it for Papyrus.

 

He has to get off his ass and do his job. Not the hot-cat stand or the guard crap– his _real_ job.

 

His brother has struggled on his own for long enough. Not anymore.

 

Never again.


	51. 2 surface shorts involving mugging and baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Beware strangers in dark alleys" - For xzacloudx, post-pacifist skelebro fluff. The bros are taking in life on the surface, getting out of mishaps and generally having a good ol' time.  
> Warnings: none
> 
> "Baking with goatmom" - For anon: "Papyrus and Toriel and them cooking." Simplicity itself!  
> Warnings: none

"Beware strangers in dark alleys"

 

 

“That restaurant was very odd,” Papyrus said, though he was too delighted with the surface to be really annoyed by anything about it. “They forgot to cook everything but the rice, did you notice?”

 

Sans shuffled along next to his brother. “I dunno,” he said, wiping a stray glob of wasabi from his shirt. “Didn’t seem too fishy to me. And the boat thing? Pure genius.”

 

Papyrus tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll concede that the boats were cute, yes.”

 

“A conveyor belt that keeps bringing you food endlessly is the second-best thing I’ve seen up here.” Sans smiled contentedly. “You can bet that’s going in Grillby’s suggestion box.”

 

Papyrus rolled his eyes, a conditioned response to any mention of Grillby’s.

 

“Where to next, bro?”

 

“Oh!” Papyrus skipped half a step. “There’s a shop near here that Alphys mentioned. It’s has model kits!” He laid a hand on his cheekbone dreamily. “Robot model kits…”

 

“Sounds neat.” Sans waited while his brother stepped out to the curb to hail a cab. His smile drooped as car after car ignored them. Humans… Most of them were pretty okay, but not all of them.

 

After a couple minutes, Papyrus gave up. “Well, that was strange,” he said, looking at his hand as though something must be wrong with it. “They must not have seen me.”

 

“We can walk,” Sans said, sharper than he meant to.

 

Papyrus raised a brow. “Are you sure? It’s ten blocks.”

 

San waved him off. “The exercise’ll do me good. Besides,” he added, while Papyrus stammered in disbelief, “if I get tired you can just carry me the rest of the way.”

 

Shock drained from Papyrus’ face in an instant. “Ah, I should have known. Layabout,” he said, for the sake of it. Pulling out his phone, he tapped the shop’s address into the GPS. “Alright, then! Looks like this is the quickest route,” he said, and strode into the alley.

 

After a moment’s hesitation spent noticing the alley’s relative darkness and quiet, Sans followed.

 

They traversed three blocks without incident. The next alley they turned into, Sans saw a shape detach from the crowds and drift after them into the shadows. Oh, boy.

 

The human came up level with them in a spot where a dumpster blocked the view from the street. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Hey, you got the time?”

 

Before Sans could caution him to keep moving, Papyrus stopped. “Oh, sure thing!” he said, beaming. He glanced at his phone. “It’s about a quarter past…seven.” Blinking in confusion at the knife that had appeared in the human’s hand, Papyrus canted his head to one side. “Yes…?”

 

Sans sighed.

 

“Gimme your money!” the human commanded, in a not terribly commanding tone. The knife wobbled slightly in his grip.

 

“Come on, guy,” Sans said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m in a sushi coma, I don’t need this. Run along, huh?”

 

Papyrus, however, took his wallet out. “Well, if you needed bus fare,” he tutted, “you could have just asked!” He grinned. “How much do you need?”

 

Sans shot him a glare. “Bro, don’t give this guy anything!”

 

“Sans!” Papyrus gasped, scandalized. “That’s not very charitable. Now,” he said, turning his attention back to the human. “It’s what, ten dollars for a day pass?”

 

The human looked from Papyrus to Sans and back again, clearly put off by how little concern they were showing. “All the cash, man,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “Hand it over!”

 

Papyrus frowned. “I think that’s a bit unreasonable, don’t you? Here,” he said, taking a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and holding it out.

 

“What, you think this is funny?” the human snapped. He brandished the knife unsteadily while Papyrus put away his wallet. “I will cut you!”

 

“Is that so, fleshbag?” Sans crept closer to the human, only to be stopped by a gesture from Papyrus. He cast a questioning glance at his brother.

 

Papyrus smiled gently. “It’s quite alright, Sans. This human is clearly in dire straits if he was brave enough to approach us alone in a dark alley.”

 

“Yeah,” the human said, some of the color draining from his face as the real facts of the situation were laid out. Yes, following two monsters of unknown strength into the alley hadn’t been the human’s brightest moment. Especially since the way he’d situated himself left him cornered against the dumpster. If he’d looked unsure before, he was all but cowering behind his knife now.

 

Sans found his mood lightening considerably. “You know what, bro? You’re right.” He pulled a few bills from his pocket. “We can spare a few bones.”

 

It was a bizarre stand-off. The human made no move to take the money.

 

“What, too proud for charity now?” Sans waved the bills, grinning as the human flinched back from him.

 

Papyrus laid a companionable hand on the human’s shoulder. Sans fought back laughter as the human actually jumped and made a hilarious gargling noise. The knife dropped to the ground with a clatter.

 

“I know it can be difficult to accept help,” Papyrus said. With his greater height, he couldn’t help looming over the petrified human. “but you’ll get a lot farther in life if you’re honest about your needs. We’re all in this together, after all!”

 

Stepping forward, Sans pressed the bills into the human’s now-empty hand. “There you go, buddy.” If he scraped the ends of his digits across the human’s clammy flesh, it was purely accidental.

 

Papyrus nodded approvingly. “See? No need for any unpleasantness.” Gently, he steered the human to face the mouth of the alley. “Now, we’ll let you be on your way. Have a nice evening, human!”

 

The human didn’t need prodding. As soon as he had a clear path to the street he shook free of Papyrus’ hand and ran. The cash fluttered to the ground in his wake. Papyrus shrugged, gathered it up, and handed it back to Sans. Then he picked up the knife daintily between thumb and forefinger and deposited it in the dumpster.

 

“I can’t stand littering,” Papyrus said. He nudged Sans with his elbow, grinning. “Can you believe that little punk tried to rob us?”

 

Sans chuckled. “Right?” he said, mentally reminding himself to give his brother a bit more credit. “What’d he think he was gonna do with that thing?” He mimed being stabbed. “Oh, no! My fluids!”

 

“Yes,” Papyrus said, as they got underway again. “It’s sad, really. You could tell he wasn’t a violent person, deep down. It’s a good thing we’re up here now, to act as a positive influence.”

 

“You’re the best influence, bro.”

 

They stepped out onto the street. Papyrus surveyed the humans around them with a magnanimous smile. “I know!”

 

 

 

"Baking with goatmom"

 

 

What a lovely day. Toriel rolled out the pie crust, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows. The sounds of her child laughing and playing with their friends floated in from the yard, and soft snoring from the living room. A home full of family and friends, what could be nicer?

 

She even had a helping hand in the kitchen. While Sans made sure the couch in the living room didn’t get up and wander away, his brother volunteered to assist with her baking.

 

For whatever reason, Sans had found this highly amusing. Well, it didn’t take much to tickle his funny bone, after all.

 

“Papyrus, would you be a dear and prepare the fruit, please?”

 

The skeleton snapped off a salute. “Leave it in my capable hands!”

 

While Toriel laid dough into two pie tins (one certainly wouldn’t be enough, not with company over and Frisk in the middle of a growth spurt), Papyrus washed the strawberries that would serve as the pie filling. Lost in her own task, Toriel didn’t notice him methodically piling up berries on the counter.

 

Catching movement from the corner of her eye, she turned just as Papyrus slammed his fists down in a hammer-blow.

 

_SPLAT._

 

“Fruit status: prepared!” Papyrus announced, smiling brightly and dripping with berry juice.

 

Toriel blinked, taking in the ungodly mess. Laughter bubbled up like a pot boiling over, and she was wheezing by the time she got herself under control. Thankfully, Papyrus was not one to take offense easily, seeming merely to be pleased that she was in good spirits.

 

“I suppose…” Toriel said, wiping tears from here eyes. “I suppose that’s one way to go about it.” Goodness, but she was quite breathless! She tried not to look directly at the mess (or Papyrus– and she _would_ have to do something about his shirt before it stained) lest she set herself laughing all over again.

 

The berries were utterly mangled, but they would make as good a pie filling as sliced strawberries.

 

Scraping the unconventional compote into a bowl, Papyrus started the next pile.

 

An impulse tickled at the back of Toriel’s mind, and she pushed up her sleeves. “May I give it a go?”

 

Papyrus nodded enthusiastically. “It would be an honor to watch an experienced cook at work!”

 

Oh, the kitchen was going to be an absolute disaster, to say nothing of her fur. But still, what fun! Toriel smashed the berries with one mighty fist, crowing laughter.


End file.
